Pain
by jellymankelly
Summary: AU "You've spent the last few years not only becoming accustomed to it, but turning it into a sort of unspoken mantra. You don't just live 'with' the pain, you live 'by' the pain. It's a mantle around your shoulders, a heavy, almost comforting weight that keeps your blood pumping and your mind moving." M for graphic depictions of violence, coarse language, and sexual themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Pain  
**Pairing:** Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce (Glee)  
**Word Count: **1,426  
**Rating: **MA for graphic depictions of violence, coarse language, and sexual themes

**Summary:** "You've spent the last few years not only becoming accustomed to it, but turning it into a sort of unspoken mantra. You don't just live _with_ the pain, you live _by_ the pain. It's a mantle around your shoulders, a heavy, almost comforting weight that keeps your blood pumping and your mind moving."

Disclaimer: Glee and all related characters are owned by Fox Networks. No profit has been made through the publishing of this work of fiction; it was created for entertainment purposes only.

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**Author's Note: Two things of note, just in case you're wondering. Firstly, this will be a multiple chapter fic, but I don't know how long yet. Definitely more than ten chapters, probably less than thirty, but we'll see how it goes. Secondly, updates will be slow to come, as (unfortunately) I cannot devote all my time to writing. Expect no less than a month at least between each chapter, usually more. The prologue will probably be the only exception to that, since it's so short. I hope to have Chapter 1 up sometime within the next 24 hours.**

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Prologue

The dim lights of the old arena flicker almost constantly, filling the corners of the room with more shadow than light. The brightest lights have all been pointed towards the center of the space, where a raucous crowd presses in around a dilapidated fighting cage.

The cage itself continues the arena's theme of general decay, with worn mats covering the floor and chain-link fencing so rusted it seems ready to collapse at any given moment. More than half of the surface area of the mats are stained by macabre Rorschach tests, red splotches echoing the shapes of fingers, feet, and faces where they scrabbled desperately across the rubber material.

Within the enclosed ring two fighters circle each other, sweat and blood dripping from their bodies in near equal amounts. The larger of the two, a man huge and impressively muscled, grins arrogantly around his mouthpiece, either uncaring or simply no longer aware of the dozens of small cuts and contusions that stand out against the pale skin of his face and torso. It's clear to the onlookers that he has every confidence in his ability to claim a quick and easy victory and, given his opponent, the assumption doesn't seem terribly outlandish.

The smaller fighter is a woman, tiny in comparison to the muscled behemoth before her, who bobs and weaves her way around the ring with a restless, unwavering pace. She has surprisingly few injuries, but the ones she has collected look far more severe than any she's managed to inflict. Her left eye has already begun to swell and purple, and there's a rivulet of blood running from the tip of her left eyebrow down over her cheek. Her elbows are pulled in close over her stomach, which undoubtedly will be just as spectacularly colored as her eye by tomorrow, due to a punishing blow the man had landed earlier in the second round. There are massive fingerprints branded into her right biceps from when he attempted to pick her up and bodily hurl her across the cage just moments ago. Fortunately, the woman is fast, too fast for her opponent, and she had managed to twist out of his grasp before he could do more than bruise her arm.

His motions, especially his punches, are slow - almost to the point of laziness - but the burn in her gut and behind her left eye can attest to the raw power behind the blows. Her hits are more strategic, depending on the exploitation of natural weaknesses rather than brute force. He won't feel their devastating effect until it's far too late.

Her long, raven curls are locked against her scalp in dozens of tightly coiled plaits, their free-hanging lengths gathered in a bun at the base of her skull where it's harder to gain purchase. Her skin is brown in its complexion, seamed with countless scars and mottled with new bruises and old. Her eyes are almost black in the poor lighting, and cold, showing no flicker of emotion beyond her intense concentration.

She wears loose black sports shorts and a tight fitting crimson spandex tee over her sports bra, and her feet are bare. The man had laughed at that when the fight had first begun, but he soon learned the damage those tiny feet could deal, and the deadly accuracy with which they dealt it. The mocking had quickly ceased thereafter. Her gloves are standard issue five-ounce open fingered fighting mitts, and their red and white striped knuckles are a match for the rust caked flooring beneath her.

The man's ensemble consists merely of denim shorts, gloves, and running shoes. The shorts are ragged and hang low on his hips, giving him an appearance ominously reminiscent of The Incredible Hulk. He passes a hand through short cropped brown hair and pulls out his mouthguard to spit a mixture of saliva and blood in the woman's direction. He grins condescendingly, and his teeth are slightly pink from the blood he didn't manage to expel.

Beyond the crowd of jeering onlookers, nestled in the back corner of the arena, sits a box suite a full story above the ground floor. Behind the cheap bubbled glass that serves as the box's front wall three men, all in pristine suits, sit watching the fight with icily impassive eyes. Occasionally one will shift to murmur something to another, but for the most part they remain silent and unmoving.

A fourth man stands off to the side, his nervous fidgeting a direct contrast to their predatory stillness, and made all the more awkward by his ungainly height. His eyes shift anxiously between the three men and the fighters down in the ring, never resting on any one subject for long.

More so than his agitated behavior, his appearance marks him as an interloper among the polished trio. Where the three men are immaculately groomed, he is scruffy with a patchy five o'clock shadow that is at complete odds with his round, childlike face. His right hand picks mindlessly at the zipper of his tattered grey hoodie while his left flutters in and out of the pocket of his jeans, as if it can't quite decide where it ought to rest.

Even without the benefit of the comparison, the men seated are sleek and powerful and entirely at ease in their precisely tailored suits. The suit nearest the fourth man gestures imperiously without looking away from the fight. Nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to respond, the tall man stumbles forward and only just avoids spilling the expensive liquor as he refills the proffered glass.

A loud clatter draws the attention of all three suits and they stare blankly at the bumbling stooge as he attempts to resettle the scotch decanter in its proper place on the silver platter before him. His face flushes hotly and his eyes remain fixed on the glassware. Once he steps back into his previous position, the seated trio turn as one and refasten their gazes on the scene below.

The man in the hoodie lifts his eyes to the fighters as well, staring at the woman in particular with a spark of desperation and fear shining in his normally dull mud-brown eyes.

The two fighters continue to circle each other, the man like a tiger, lazy and assured in his dominance, the woman like an alley cat, bristling and determined. Unlike the man, she is neither confident nor unsure - simply focused.

In a bizarre display of collectivism, the crowd gradually sinks into an anticipatory silence, sensing that something important is about to occur. Unbeknownst to them the occupants of the box suite above them seem to sharpen their attention as well, one suit even going so far as to lean forward slightly. The dough-faced man swallows convulsively and looks on with helpless avidity.

The woman has ceased her restless dance and is utterly immobile. It unnerves even her gargantuan opponent, though he does his best to conceal the chill her sudden stillness elicits. With a roaring battle cry he charges the tiny figure, and she explodes into a blinding flurry of motion.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

You move the end of the cigar just over the blue flame spouting from the lighter, carefully toasting its circumference. The leathery brown wrapper crackles slightly as you slowly roll the body between your thumb and forefinger, making sure the edges are evenly blackened. Once you're certain of an even toast, you press the punctured cap against your lips and hold the cigar almost completely vertical before allowing the flame up to engulf the foot. Puffing on it several times to guarantee a light, you blow the remaining smoke over the embers for a final check.

A small feeling of pride curls in your chest when the whole foot glows an even angry red-orange. Cigar lighting - well, cigar smoking in general, really - is a lost art form, in your not-so humble opinion.

Satisfied with your efforts you suck in a long drag, holding the smoke in your cheeks until your tongue starts to scorch and your brain goes a bit fuzzy from lack of oxygen. Even then, you don't let your breath rush out all at once, in one big huff. Your head rolls back as you gently breathe out through your nose. Your lips are slightly parted as smoke trickles out between them. It twists and curls and dances above your upturned face, one long continuous stream of blue-grey. It almost looks like strands of silk, and you briefly wonder what it might feel like sliding between your fingers before shoving the ridiculous thought impatiently from your mind.

You don't often allow yourself the indulgence of smoking, certainly never more than once every three weeks at the most, so you intend to savor the experience. You know one cigar is probably worse than chain smoking six or seven cigarettes in a row in terms of nicotine and tobacco exposure, but you'll be damned if you care right now.

You love the acrid taste on your tongue and the smell of leather and wood and burnt leaves wreathing around you. The subtle bittersweet taste fills your throat, burning occasionally when too much smoke slides past your tongue.

It's almost an exercise in masochism, smoking. At least for you it is. Even more than the gentle buzz that will eventually curtain across your mind, you love the pain of it. The sour aftertaste, the roughness in your throat, the smoldering feeling in the back of your mouth when you hold the smoke hostage behind your lips for too long.

In an effort to work out the kinks and aches seizing your back and shoulder muscles, you wriggle in a full body shake. A grimace twists your expression and your teeth grit when it does more harm than good.

You take another pull and run the tip of your tongue over your lips, relishing the slight sting that comes from introducing moisture to dry, chapped flesh suddenly. Your split bottom lip throbs lightly, and you snarl silently at the reminder of last night.

These days your life seems to operate in pain the way a crooked lawyer operates in lies, so seeking it out seems counterintuitive, yet you crave the burn. Something about a good smoke...you can't even explain it properly. There's just something so inexplicably alluring about knowing it's bad for you but doing it anyway. You have to be so careful with every other aspect of yourself, your life, your body, your health, that this occasional indiscretion seems more exciting and rebellious than it probably is in reality.

Your trainer, back when he actually was your trainer, always curled a lip in disgust. Though for all his griping, he never really gave you crap about it since it didn't affect your performance, so you felt justified in ignoring him. He just couldn't understand the draw of pain you can control and choose. He wondered -usually aloud - how anyone could actually _enjoy_ the taste and smell of cigars in all their pungent glory. Back when he thought about you as anything more than the bottom line. A means to his own selfish end.

Now you don't have anyone to justify your habit to, anyone to explain your strange attraction to pain.

It's an acquired taste, and one that necessitates the understanding that not everything in this world can be sweet. Sometimes harsh and bitter can be just as alluring in its own way as smooth and sugary. Besides which, sweetness never lasts, but it's a guarantee that the bitterness will. It's a lesson you learned early in life, and it's one that has stuck with you. You've spent the last few years not only becoming accustomed to it, but turning it into a sort of unspoken mantra. You don't just live _with_ the pain, you live _by_ the pain. It's a mantle around your shoulders, a heavy, almost comforting weight that keeps your blood pumping and your mind moving.

"Those are some pretty heavy thoughts you got bumping around up there."

You start violently -_ oh God, ow ow ow, movement bad, stillness good_ - and are jerked from your introspection by a brightly melodic voice. It shatters the darkness of your thoughts like sunshine blazing in through newly opened windows, dispelling the shadows effortlessly. Once you've made sure you didn't accidentally ash your cigar all over your jeans, you set it carefully on the ashtray centered on the weather-worn wooden table before you and crane your neck up and to the left to find the source of the intrusion.

You roll your eyes inwardly at the sight you're met with. _Of course_ she's just as sunshine-y beautiful as her voice. Long blonde hair cascades in gentle waves around a pale, freckled face, framing the clearest blue eyes you think you've ever seen. A slender, aquiline nose that stops just shy of being too large wrinkles under those strange, cat-like eyes, pulling pink cheeks in and pink lips up into an expression of apologetic cheer.

She doesn't say anything more, and seems utterly unconcerned by your silence, so you take the opportunity to continue your survey. You can tell, even under the threadbare and baggy white t-shirt she's got on that she's ridiculously fit. Her forearms are sleekly muscled and her fingers, which ring around each other against the backdrop of a flat stomach, are long and delicate. Her legs are just as finely muscled as her arms; a fact made all the more evident by the black skinny jeans that you're assuming had to be painted on, based on the way they hug her every curve perfectly. Her shoes are plain white sneakers, but they're saved from banality by the lurid neon orange curly laces holding them together.

_I thought they stopped making those back in the nineties.  
_  
She seems to divine your thoughts simply from the direction of your gaze and responds to them. "Retro, right? I don't even know if they make 'em anymore. If they don't, then I just had amazing foresight as a kid 'cause I happen have several dozen pairs stockpiled against future need. Cost a hefty percentage of my allowance, lemme tell ya."

You glance back up at the woman's face to see that the crinkles have smoothed into a pleased grin. You cock an eyebrow just because and respond only with a short nod of acknowledgment.

The grin falters for a split second before shrinking into something smaller, shier, and somehow even more beautiful. You clench your fists to keep from groaning in exasperation. _ Fucking Los Angeles._ You know the joke goes that all the supermodels that aren't in New York or Paris are here (ostensibly, trying to make it big in Hollywood), but _seriously_. Sometimes it feels like you haven't seen more than maybe a score of less-than-perfect humans since you moved to West Hollywood three years ago. It's a little ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb your afternoon. I just..." She falters again, and you quickly school your face into something you hope resembles polite interest, just in case you had started scowling again and that was what put her off. She seems sweet and you don't want to be rude.

Which you're beginning to think might be Red Flag Number One. You haven't felt moved to care about common courtesy toward strangers in years. Not even drop-dead gorgeous strangers with legs for days.

You let your gaze wander back up to her eyes from where it had unconsciously fallen to her lips, and try to convey silent encouragement. It takes guts to walk up to a stranger, especially when that stranger probably looks like a prizefighter in the aftermath of a particularly brutal match - which is in fact very nearly the case, but you don't really think that's the point here. The point is, a stunning stranger is looking at you like you're the most interesting person on the whole damn planet, and it's flattering in a way that you haven't encountered in a very long time.

She seems to find her courage again because her smile suddenly brightens. "You kind of looked like Eeyore over here and it's really just not right that someone with such kind eyes should look so...down."

You're too confused by the Eeyore thing to do more than scoff lightly at the bullshit about your 'kind eyes.' You're well aware that your eyes look anything but kind at the moment. Your left eye, in particular, probably looks more like an overripe, misshapen plum.

_But Eeyore? As in, from Winnie the Pooh?_ Surely you misheard her. You feel your eyebrows knit together when your lack of response only elicits an airy giggle from the stranger. Women who giggle tend to be the bane of your sanity, but somehow she manages to make it…not irritating as hell.

"Y'know, 'cause he sometimes has that little rain cloud over his head. I always feel so bad for the poor guy."

You glance up instinctively even though you know there isn't an _actual fucking rain cloud_ over your head, but the air is still enough today that the smoke from a few moments before hasn't completely dissipated yet.

You pick up your cigar and give it a couple puffs to illustrate that the cloud is one of your own making. _See? No rain._ You haven't said a word to the stranger thus far, yet the two of you seem to be communicating perfectly. Curious to see how much longer this bizarre one-sided-but-not conversation can go, you gesture to the chair next to you before you can stop yourself. Red Flag Number Two. You're starting to think you might be in trouble here. You haven't been this friendly since you were a kid. You manage to keep the motion casual at least, so it looks less like a request. _Sit if you want, I don't care._

The stranger claps her hands happily before collapsing into the chair to your immediate left in one fluid motion. The movement captures your attention with its boneless elegance. Where you're all thick, corded muscle and brute strength, she's lithe sinew and understated grace. You've never felt more like an uncoordinated meathead in your life.

Before you can do anything else, she plucks the cigar out of your fingers and brings it to her lips for a long pull. You're about to protest when your brain comes to a screeching halt at the sight of bluish smoke slowly billowing out from between her lips. You've always thought a woman with a cigar was an especially alluring sight - it's half the reason you started smoking them yourself - but_ Jesus H. Christ._ You don't think you've seen anything sexier in your life. She hands the cigar back to you with a polite thanks, and giggles again when you continue to stare, wide-eyed and slack jawed.

You shake your head and glance at the cigar label, wondering if you accidently picked up something other than your favorite brand. Something stronger, or hell, maybe your roommate started rewrapping your cigars with his weed mixed in again and you just didn't notice. You don't usually get a buzz this quickly, but it feels like your brain is wrapped in gauze, all fuzzy and unfocused.

You glance back at the blonde and realize she's watching you carefully, like she just poked a sleeping bear and she's curious to see what will happen next. Shaking your head one more time, you try to assemble yourself into some semblance of composure again before shifting in your chair to face her more fully.

Weirdly determined to keep up this little social experiment you've concocted, you switch the cigar to your right hand and eye her distrustfully. _No touching. Mine._ Her eyes immediately darken and she looks like she's about to apologize, so you huff in exasperation and switch the cigar back to your left hand and roll your eyes. Her expression cheers again and you mentally pat yourself on the back. Crisis averted.

_Wait, hold up. What now?_ You frown again, this time in confusion and irritation. _Crisis averted?_ What crisis? Why are you agreeing to share your cigar with some random chick you don't even know? You're not college roommates sharing a blunt in between classes. This is your cigar. It's the first one you've had in almost a month, in fact, and now you have to share it? _What the actual fuck?_ You look up from your hands, one of which has balled into a fist again, and prepare to tell the girl find her own cigar and leave you the fuck alone, but her eyes stop you.

It's clear from the twinkle gleaming in the crystal blue that she's laughing at you, even though she's not making a noise. Your own eyes narrow slightly in a glare, but the twitch in your cheek betrays you, and her grin widens. You roll your eyes again but allow a tiny smile to break through to the surface. She's just too damned cute to get mad at. It's irritating, really. Red Flag Number Three. You're definitely in trouble.

You grumble under your breath, but it's a tame sound. More like a purr than a growl.

"Pssh. You like it."

Your gaze snaps back to hers at the remark; the glint has turned into something much more mischievous.

You shrug. _Whatever._ You're starting to really second guess self-imposed silence thing; it's severely cramping your rather masterful command of the English language - or, more to the point, your arsenal of acerbic counters and comebacks - and you comfort yourself with the knowledge that your half-raccoon mask and raw knuckles bespeak your inherent badassery, even if your lack of wit doesn't.

You've had a long week, that's all, what with almost having the snot kicked out of you last night. And two nights before. And another three nights before that. You frown as the realization hits you - you've had three matches in the past ten days. No wonder you feel like processed meat. You pretty much are at this point. You start taking stock of the bruises and aches littering your body, both old and new, and the list of damages is a little disconcerting.

Almost as if she's following your train of thought again, the blonde gestures delicately towards your face and quips "I'm guessing that I should see the other guy?"

You blink in confusion for a moment until the joke sinks in and pushes out a reluctant chuckle from your chest. When she stares at you with an expectant expression, you merely cock a sardonic eyebrow at her and smirk, offering no explanation. Even if it is a little childish, you're pleased to have the upper hand in this exchange for once.

She pouts at you and you only have a split-second to register how absurdly adorable it is before it's gone, replaced by a look of deep concentration. Her eyes scan your whole person slowly, and you have to fight not to squirm under the inspection.

"Well, despite what I'm assuming is your best effort to conceal it, I can see that you're pretty fit, and other than a pretty magnificent black eye and a split lip, you don't look like you have any really serious injuries - at least that I can see - so I'm guessing this wasn't an accident or a mugging?" The way she drags the sentence up at the end makes it a question. You tip an invisible hat at her in confirmation, earning yourself a tinkling laugh at your antics.

Secretly, you're impressed that she can tell that much just by looking at you. She's absolutely right, after all. You deliberately chose a sweatshirt two sizes too big to go with your baggy 'boyfriend' jeans (a moniker that always makes you snort at the irony). They fit you so loosely that you have to wear them with a belt lest they slide right off your hips. A person would have to be pretty damned observant to pick up on your fitness of shape in this outfit. Which apparently, this woman is.

"Hmm, interesting. Organised sports?"

You snort in derision. No-one has ever accused you of being a team player.

"Ooh, not a fan of playing with others are you? Curiouser and curiouser."

The words are teasing, and they draw another unwilling smile from you. You eye her lazily, amused in spite of yourself, and fold your hands in your lap, your cigar long forgotten in the ashtray. She continues on with her 20 Questions-style conversation.

"Oh, I know! Boxing?" She grins at you in triumph, but it falters when she sees the way your lip curls in disdain. Boxing for over-muscled idiots who don't have the discipline and talent to learn a real martial art.

"Not boxing?"

You quirk an eyebrow at her again. _What do you think?  
_  
"Not boxing. Okay. Ummmm..." She stares off into space for a moment, and you can almost actually see the lightbulb go off above her head. She zeroes her gaze in on you again, and the laser-like quality of her focus makes your heart stutter.

Red Flag Number Four. Your heart is normally like a freight train, steady and strong. The last time it skipped a beat was because an opponent managed to land a palm strike to your sternum that pulled some kind of reverse CPR bullshit on you. It probably took the fighter years to master such a deadly blow, but this woman managed the same effect with nothing more than a look.

You're so caught up in your own thoughts you don't even notice when she reaches to pull your left hand into her lap until she's already got it firmly in her grasp. You attempt to reclaim it; you haven't had contact with stranger that didn't somehow involve pain in a long time, and the peculiarity of this encounter already has you on edge. When she refuses to release you, you look at her questioningly, but she's focused entirely on the appendage trapped between her fingers.

Her right thumb trails over your knuckles, but you're too surprised to even acknowledge the sting it causes. She flips your hand over and gently massages your palm, pausing over the hard muscled meat under your thumb and pressing into it lightly. Long fingers drift over your smaller ones, noting each silvery white scar where it stands out against the umber of your skin. Your fingers start to tremble under her delicate ministrations, and your stomach clenches with each stroke.

"You use all of your hand, not just your knuckles. It's so strong."

You have to lean forward to catch the words, so quietly does she murmur them. She looks back up at you suddenly and you start at the unexpected motion. She grins at your jumpiness and the moment is broken.

"MMA fighter?"

You stare at her numbly until your brain finally kickstarts again and you register her words. You nod once, deliberately, before fastening your gaze back on your hand, still caught in hers. She tugs it to draw your attention back to her. You try to pull it back again, assuming that the game is done. When she doesn't let go, you meet her eyes again and it stops you cold.

The once summer sky blues have turned to murky blue-greys, like the sea just before a storm, and they roil turbulently beneath golden lashes. She maintains eye contact with you steadily, not breaking it once as she lifts your hand to place a feather-light kiss on each knuckle. The touch is almost unbearably soft and so sweet that your breath catches in your throat. You wonder briefly if the knuckle bone is connected to the stomach bone and just no-one thought to tell you, because why else would you be feeling each kiss low in your belly like that?

When she finally relinquishes your hand, you pull it back and let it fall limp in your lap. You couldn't speak now if your life depended on it, and you're kind of floored by that fact.

"You're welcome," she chirps pleasantly.

You want to ask her what in the _hell_ that was, and she seems to understand. "Kisses always make the ouchies better."

_Jesus Christ. Ouchies? This woman is something else._ You roll your eyes for lack of a better response. Not because you can still feel her lips ghosting across your skin and you don't know what to do about it. That would be ridiculous. You give her a crooked smile because you've had worse 'ouchies' before, and you're certain to have worse in the future.

You lean across the table to reach for your cigar again, anxious for something (anything) to do. Before you can lean back, she grips your forearm in a light but firm grasp. You tense automatically and stare at her. Her eyes are even darker now and she looms in close. Considering you're outside, you're a little concerned at your sudden inability to draw breath.

She slowly leans in and whispers, "But they're kind of really limited, as remedies go, so it's best to apply a lot of 'em to...each ouchie."

_Oh fuck.  
_  
Your heart pounds as she stands smoothly, crouching over you. You remain completely frozen as she brushes her lips ever so gently across the cut over your left eyebrow. Your eyes slip shut automatically when she moves to kiss your eyelid next.

You stay like that for a few moments, completely still and completely panicked. Your eyelids flit open again, and you can't help the gasp when you see her face is still mere inches from your own. Stormy blue eyes bore into you, and there's a voiceless question behind them. You swallow thickly and struggle to pull in a full breath. The scent of her perfume fills your senses and sends your head spinning. Without conscious direction, you lean back ever so slightly, hoping the distance will help to steady you.

Her eyes flash with something that looks suspiciously like disappointment before they fill with simple, kind understanding. She sinks noiselessly back into her chair and releases your arm, but you're too busy still trying to recall the correct procedure for breathing to move. Distance makes no difference, it seems

"All better?"

"God, yes." The words spill out in a harsh whisper, more hot air than actual sound or voice. Your eyes widen and you think that not even your Latin heritage can hide the deep blush that floods your face.

Her grin is back, and her eyes are a deep indigo that you're pretty sure you could get lost in. What terrifies you is how you're not sure that's a bad thing. She stands abruptly, purposefully, and the movement shatters the spell she's caught you in.

"Whelp, I think my job here is done. It was lovely chatting with you. I really hope we can do this again. Soon." With that, she walks away, leaving you pinned to your chair in stunned silence.

You are in so much trouble.

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Author's Note: Well that took less time than I expected to edit and post. To those who review as guests or anonymously (both in this fic and in any other I've posted), thank you for your interest and your comments. Both are unexpected but greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: As of yet, all of my work - particularly this story - is posted without the benefit of a beta. I do have one, but I found her late in the game, so she's playing catch-up at the moment. Once she's up to date and has sent her edits back to me, I plan to go back and make any small changes necessary, but rest assured none of them will have anything to do with plot or character development, so don't feel like you'll have to reread anything. Unless of course you really want to. I don't judge.**  
**I'd also like to add that I have been and will continue to post my stuff up on my tumblr account (jellyman-kelly dot tumblr dot com), as well as the occasional bit of illustration, should the mood strike me. I already have one piece posted, so feel free to head on over and check it out.**

**This chapter is dedicated to NEid93, whose invaluable insight into the world of MMA fighting made it possible, and also to Swinging Cloud, who is an impossible pest and the reason this is being posted a week ahead of schedule. I encourage you to go over and check out her stuff - she's hilarious and her Animorphs/Glee crossover "No Solid Ground," like Brittany S. Pierce, is genius.**

* * *

Chapter Two

"C'mon Lopez, you're fine. You look better than I do, even." Hudson grins at you in what you suppose is meant to be a rakishly charming manner, but really just makes him look slimy as hell. Not to mention slightly constipated.

You're not terribly fond of most men to begin with (never mind Finn fucking Hudson), but today seems to have started you with an even shorter reserve of tolerance than usual. You're tired and achy and it feels like even your hair is bruised. Normally you can accept the burning in your muscles as testament that you did a good job, that you worked yourself over to the best of your ability. Beyond that, most of the time it's even welcome - a sign that you're still alive. Not today. Today every little strain, ache, burn, and sting just serves to further piss you off.

"Firstly, not hard to do, Man Titties. You look like you're smuggling the entire contents of a Dole Whip factory under that shirt. Secondly, you wouldn't know the first thing about how _fine _I may or may not be doing, because this is the first time you've bothered to crawl out from whatever cesspool of body odor and half-eaten doughnuts you call home and show up for training in, what? The past month and a half?" You eye him up and down disdainfully, taking in his unkempt appearance, his slightly protruding beer gut, and his ever present ratty grey hoodie, before adding, "And it's clear that my workouts aren't the only ones you've been skipping out on, Baby Beluga."

He's been trying to rope you into another fight tonight for the better part of an hour, and you're not having any of it. You grip the towel around your shoulders tighter with your left hand in an effort to resist punching his stupid face in and instead fix him with an icy stare. You don't bother to hide your smirk when his grin fades a little and his eyes widen apprehensively. But when he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders at you, the smirk drops away under another wave of irritation. Not often, but every great once and awhile, he manages to remember that he is technically the one with all the authority in this arrangement. Of course, it generally only occurs when he wants something you both know he probably shouldn't. Like now, for instance.

"You're taking this fight, girl. It's a good match and the purse is well worth the effort. You don't have any serious injuries, unless you've been lying to me about your physical condition..." He raises an eyebrow at you threateningly and it's all you can do to keep from laying into the snotty bastard.

He knows you would never do something so stupid, but for whatever reason, he loves to bait you with it. The penalty for fighting lame is a heavy one at this gym - a revoked license and immediate termination of your contract.

You're not exactly living from paycheck to paycheck, especially with all the wins you've been shoring up of late, but losing your one steady source of income would land you in deep kimchee faster than you'd like to admit. Especially since your shit-for-brains trainer has only managed to land you one sponsor in your three years at this gym - a local mom and pop grocery store that comps all your groceries in exchange for their name printed across your shoulders every time you fight. Not that it matters, since technically he's within his rights to put you on probation right now, just for refusing to fight. Never mind that you're overworked, under-rested, and quite possibly malnourished at this point. He still holds all the cards. You quash a rising swell of irrational panic and harden your gaze even more.

"Listen, you sweaty sack of whale fat, I've had nine fights in the past month _alone_. Two Saturdays ago was the last day I can recall _not _training or fighting on, and I spent nearly the whole time feeling like a prime cut on Dario Cecchini's counter top. Know why? Because the week before that, I had three fights in the space of ten fucking days. Which would be fine, if I hadn't then had another _six _fights between then and now! I'm sore as fuck, I'm exhausted, and my last two matches have been sloppy at best. I'm running on fumes, and that is not the way to win a fight. Hell, that's not even the way to train. Not that it matters to you, but at this rate it's only a matter of time before I do have a serious injury, possibly even a fatal one, and the money's just not worth my life. Especially since your dumb ass can't even manage to hook me some new sponsors."

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, so you cut him off before he can get a word in.

"You remember how you were bitching a couple months ago about only having one athlete to manage? It's because of shit like this. No one else wants to put up with being treated like some kind of illegitimate pit dog just so you can continue to augment your undoubtedly extensive porn collection with the commissions." You take a deep breath before pushing on. "And you know what? Neither do I."

"That's ridiculous, Lopez," he sneers. "You're an amateur fighter, and a girl at that. This is a man's sport. You should be thanking your lucky stars that I've been able to get you this much exposure." He pastes on a patronizing smirk that has your toes curling in your shoes. If your nails were any longer, they'd be drawing blood because of how tightly the fingers of your right hand are cutting into your palm around the handle of your gym bag. "Besides, you're still winning, aren't you?"

You snarl but just manage to keep from snapping out _woman_, not _girl_. It wouldn't make a bit of difference anyhow, and you have larger fish to fry. "Exposure? Is that what you call it? Because I'm pretty sure the term you're looking for is "bullshit." The only reason I've been winning so far is because you either set me up against giant fucking monsters who depend more on brute force than actual technique to win and I manage to outsmart them, or fucking babies who haven't even been _training _for six months, never mind actually fighting."

He scoffs at this, but you can see his fists clench out of the corner of your eye, so you know you've hit a nerve.

"And another thing. That neanderthal Karofsky I fought three weeks ago? Dude was wearing shoes, Hudson. In the cage. _Shoes._ And motherfucking jean shorts. Not to mention the fact that he was like, three times my size. Was that even a sanctioned match? Because I swear to God, if you're getting me some whacked out movie gangster shit just so you can become better acquainted with your right hand, I will crack your tiny little nuts open like Satan's favorite pet squirrel - both of 'em, because you don't even get the privilege of choosing only one. I don't know what the hell is going on with you lately, but I'm done putting up with this crap. This isn't just my reputation you're putting on the line, it's my fucking _health_. I'm not-"

"Hey! Guys, what's going on here? I can hear you all the way across the gym from my office!"

You cringe and turn to face Will Schuester, the gym's owner, and your trainer's boss. You didn't realize you'd begun shouting. You glance quickly at Finn, and he slides you a squinty-eyed, baleful look that says quite clearly to keep your mouth shut. Considering what a misogynistic tool Finn is, you have to figure that Schuester's probably even worse since he's the one letting your trainer get away with all this, so you simply clench your jaw and wait.

"Sorry about that, Will. Lopez and I were just having a little discussion regarding her schedule," he smarms.

Schuester merely quirks an eyebrow and fixes Finn with a even gaze. "So I heard. I've actually been meaning to speak to you about that. It seems that in my absence these last few weeks some of the trainers have taken it upon themselves to be a bit more...liberal with their interpretation of the guidelines regarding schedule restrictions."

_Absence? Figures. _You can't stop the snort of derision that escapes because _duh_, so you press a fist to your mouth and cough awkwardly to try and cover it. Schuester doesn't even spare you a glance. _Asshole_.

"Really? Well that's just terrible!" Your head whips around to Finn so fast it causes your neck to pop loudly, but you're too busy staring at him in shocked disbelief to care. _Does he seriously believe he can weasel his way out of this?_ You watch the gym owner carefully, more than curious to see if he's as stupid as your trainer.

Schuester's eyes narrow slightly. "Indeed. It's going to take me awhile to sort through the mess that the gym calendar has become while I was gone, but I'm sure once it's taken care of I'll have no trouble getting to the bottom of it all."

Finn turns a sickly shade of green and you feel a smug smile tug at your lips. You lose it immediately when Schuester turns to direct his attention to you for the first time. His gaze is no more friendly than it was with Finn, and you feel a cold spike of trepidation stab at your gut. Finn enjoys reminding you of your supposedly inferior status as a female fighter whenever possible, but the worst he can do is pit you against opponents far beyond your abilities and hope one of them damages you enough to put you out of commission - and thus potentially out of a job with this gym since you don't have the kind of insurance coverage most of its members are afforded.

When you started here three years ago, you basically _were_ an illegitimate pit dog with no health care and the world's deepest death wish. Another fighter at the gym happened to catch one of your fights and brought you over, vouched for you, got you cleaned up, and signed on. The gym policy when they added you on was that you _had _to have some kind of insurance in case someone handed you your ass and a hospital visit was required to reattach it, so you signed up for the cheapest plan they offered - a shitty little HMO that probably wouldn't give you a bandaid if an icepick was sticking out of your skull. You figured it didn't really matter. You were tough, fast, and not a little arrogant about your own skill, so you simply banked on the assumption that you could probably make sure that any injuries you sustained weren't enough to permanently damage you. Given time, you had worked your way up to a better contract, one that you can actually depend on.

If Hudson decided he had it out for you, it could get ugly, but it wouldn't be the worst thing that ever happened. Considering the amount of success you've had, especially recently (however inglorious it might be), you could probably land a contract with a different gym easily enough. Even if it would suck major donkey balls to have to start all over from the bottom again.

Schuester, on the other hand, if he happens to be of the same mind, can simply decide to hold you just as responsible for the excess in matches as your trainer, and all you would be able to do is stand aside and watch him flush your career down the toilet.

"In the meantime, Ms. Lopez, I wonder if I might have a word?" The sound of your name snaps you out of your ruminations. You look up just in time to stare blankly as Schuester turns on his heel and begins making his way back to the front of the building where his office is located. He pauses several feet away from the both of you when he realizes you're not following and beckons you again.

"Ms. Lopez? Now, if you please."

You jerk into motion, nearly stumbling over your own feet, and throw one last glance over your shoulder at your trainer as you follow his superior. Finn looks completely pale now, and rather more constipated than usual. You decide right then that if you're going down, Michelin Man is coming along for the ride.

You step into Schuester's office but make no move to sit in one of the dusty leather chairs facing his desk. He's seated behind the desk, rifling through several stacks of folders and what look like scheduling calendars for various fighters. The more silence that builds between you, the more your anger rises, until finally you're shaking with rage and frustration. You haven't gotten this emotionally worked up in a long, long time, and you're not handling it well. Just as you're about to let the curly haired son of a bitch have it - career be damned - he pulls out a file folder with your name neatly printed at the top and speaks.

"Have a seat, won't you Ms. Lopez?" You clench your jaw again and drop into one of the chairs, back stiff as a board. "Well, since you don't have any major injuries, I can give you as much as two months off and still keep you on. You're absolutely right about your overabundance of matches. I don't generally intend for my fighters to participate in more than two or three fight per month, four at the absolute most, but that's a rarity. I'll certainly be having words with Mr. Hudson regarding your scheduling; he has clearly been abusing his power and your superb athleticism, and I won't allow it in my gym, no matter how much profit it pulls in. I apologize for allowing it to progress this far."

All of your pent up fury blows right out of you in a heavy breath. You sag back into the chair, completely flabbergasted by his cool and collected little speech. He glances up at you for the first time, sees the shock that is surely written across your face, and chuckles quietly. He flips the folder open and thumbs through the pages until he unearths what appears to be some sort of calendar. Placing it on top of the stack of pages, he smooths his hands over his sweater vest before flicking his arms out over his desk in a business-like manner. He pulls out a pen from a desk drawer to his right and sets it over the page before speaking again.

"I take it you'll be accepting the full two months then?" He's about to make a mark on the page when you finally find your voice again.

"No! Um, I mean, no thank you, sir." He glances up at you in question and you have to think for a moment before continuing. "I think a month and a half will be enough. I'd just like a little time to...cool off, I guess. I don't want to fall out of shape though," you're quick to add. He nods at you approvingly before making a couple notes on the page before him.

"Very good, Ms. Lopez. I'll put you down as inactive for the next forty-five days then. I believe part of your contract includes an arrangement with your place of living?" You nod cautiously, and steel yourself for the worst. You'll probably be able to make rent for this month, but it looks like you'll have to pick up some temporary work for the next one. At least you'll actually have the time to do it, now.

"Well, I see know reason not to maintain the status quo during that time. This is standard operation for any athlete who requires time to recuperate from major injuries or simply needs a little R&R after a particularly heavy schedule. As you are contractually under my employ, you are of course welcome to continue training here at the gym even whilst inactive. In fact, I would encourage it." He raises an eyebrow at you and you're quick to nod in agreement. Like hell are you going to fall out of shape, even during your time off.

"Excellent. I will be sure to monitor all of my fighters' matches more closely to prevent a repeat of this. As I said , I try to encourage no more than three or four fights per month, so that each fighter has enough downtime in between to recuperate and train. I clearly will have to consider how to go about enforcing this more stringently in the future. I don't want any of my athletes, especially not one as talented and driven as you are, burning out. Now, while you have me here, was there anything else you wished to discuss?"

You stare at him for another moment, still shocked by the courtesy and diplomacy with which he handled your situation. Shaking your head to regain your bearings, you look him squarely in the eye before responding that no, you didn't have anything further to discuss and yes, you'd be sure to come to him sooner next time if you're not happy with how you're being handled in his gym. With another small smile, he nods at you before rising and holding out his hand for you to shake. His grasp is firm, measuring without being challenging, and you return the pressure equally, making sure not to overpower his grip with your own. Satisfied, you stand and turn to leave without another word, mind still slightly reeling in the aftermath of such an unexpected exchange.

Scooping up your gym bag from where you left it just outside Schuester's office, you turn to head toward the exit, full intent on getting the fuck outta Dodge. Despite the dried sweat that's starting to make your skin itch and crawl, you're ready to leave. You'll shower when you get home.

"What the hell, Lopez? What just happened in there?"

You groan and cast a longing glance at the gym's front door. _So close, and yet so damn far._ "I'm out, _Hudson_. That's what happened in there."

You turn to face him as you step out of Schuester's office just in time to catch his petulant pout turn into a gloat.

"He let you go? Aw gee, Lopez, what a _shame_. You were such an _asset _to the team."

"No Pilsbury Dough Face, he's put me on the inactive list for a month and a half. To give me time to rest. And _work out_." You spit the last bit out pointedly and are rewarded with an angry flush filling Finn's visage. "Oh, and we had a nice little chat about over-scheduling too. Something about it not being worth the profit if his fighter isn't being taken care of? Novel concept, huh?" His face pales again and you wonder idly if it makes him dizzy, all that blood rushing to and from his head so quickly. Feeling more than a little vindictive, you can't help but add, "I wonder if he's going to be looking over all the most recent fights while he's at it. I'm sure he'll want to make sure everything's on the up and up. Wouldn't you?"

He screws his face into an angry mask. "Hey, were you or were you not getting paid for these matches?" You bite back a chuckle at the way his eyes widen, completely at odds with his blustering.

"That's not the point, _Finncompetent_. I'm not going to be winning them for much longer if I'm not given a chance to recover. And I need to train more. Fighting alone is not going to keep me in proper shape. You should know, you're the one who told me that." His eyes narrow at the last sentence and you see something that might have been guilt flash through his eyes before it's gone again, replaced by his usual arrogant smirk.

"You didn't seem to be complaining last week. Whatsa matter, Lopez? Getting soft in your old age?"

You bristle at the suggestion and take one small step forward, smiling in satisfaction when he immediately matches your forward motion with a much larger backwards movement of his own.

"Care to find out, _coach_? It's been awhile since you've sparred with me, maybe you should see for yourself whether I've "gone soft" or not." You flex your shoulders for good measure, and only just manage not to laugh out loud at the very audible gulp that emits from his bobbing throat.

"Uh..That won't be necessary. Besides, you said you didn't want to fight for a while, right? Can't go back on your word now, can you?" His eyes shift nervously and you roll your own in disgust and annoyance.

"Whatever. I'm out. I'll see you around, Hudson. Unless I'm lucky and your fat ass gets canned the way it should be." You don't bother waiting for him to respond before executing a quick about-face and stalking out of the gym. On your way out you catch Schuester's eye through his half-shuttered office window, and he offers you a conspiratorial wink, which you return with a small nod. You haven't had much contact with the man before this, but you'd heard from other fighters who train at his gym that he's a good businessman A little bit full of himself, and a complete ass to any woman not on his payroll, but he seems to treat his fighters with respect at least.

You set a leisurely pace as you leave the gym, concentrating on perfectly syncing your breaths with your slow steps in an effort to cool off. Most of your anger went right out the window during your talk with Schuester, but something about Finn always manages to ratchet up your normally level-headed disposition in to one of near constant aggravation these days. It didn't used to be so strained between the two of you. Sure you never really liked the look of the guy, but he's a good- _was _a good trainer once upon a time. Back when you were a person and not just a meal ticket with fists.

When you first had joined the gym and they told you that you would be assigned to a trainer, you were glad to have the opportunity to learn from what you assumed would be an old pro. When faced with (a much lighter framed) Finn Hudson, former New York middleweight champ two years running, you were pleased but wary. There was something about him, even then, that put you on edge.

Once you discovered that his skill and experience were tempered with rampant sexism and a general lack of intelligence, you resigned yourself to your fate and focused instead on bettering your own abilities, rather than your relationship with your trainer. After all, it's not like you could have just up and opted to switch for someone better. To your knowledge, only twice since its establishment has the gym allowed for a fighter to pick a new trainer over their current one.

Whatever. At least the head of the gym seems a little more decent than you expected.

You think back on your conversation with Schuester, and send out a silent prayer that he makes good on his word to 'have words with Mr. Hudson.'

You feel compelled to admit a certain grudging respect for the man. He certainly handled you well enough.

You shake your head in amusement at the memory. You can't remember the last time someone was able to take the wind out of your righteously indignant sails but Schue-

You stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, barely even aware of the two or three people who stumble into you from behind. You _can _remember the last time. That blonde. She took just about every emotion you experienced and turned it into bug-eyed, speechless awe. You haven't even thought about her since two Mondays ago - a couple days after your encounter.

Your head had been filled with thoughts of her all day, right until the chick you were in the ring with that night caught you unawares and slammed a fist so far into your gut it felt like she could have tickled the backside of your sternum. You wince and drape a hand over your belly at the remembered sensation. You had to play it close to the chest the rest of the week - literally - to make sure no one did any further damage to your intensely bruised innards. You had firmly put golden hair and ocean blue eyes out of your mind, and they hadn't resurfaced since. Until now.

Your left hand twitches lightly as you recall the way soft, thin pink lips ghosted over your knuckles, sending shockwaves through your body. You lick your lips, remembering how her breath felt across your eyelid, warm and wet. Jesus. Some random chick makes out with your hand for three seconds and your underwear are practically ruined. Ridiculous.

Pushing the unbidden memories firmly from your mind, you pick up your pace and make your way to the bus stop. It's not likely that you'll see her again, and even if you did, nothing would come of it, so you refuse to waste any more mental effort on the subject.

When you arrive at the stop and see that you have at least fifteen minutes before the next bus arrives, you take a seat gingerly at the end of the bench, placing your gym bag next to you as a buffer to discourage anyone from coming too close. It's second nature now to keep the whole world at arm's length or further, if you can help it. Your hands rest heavily on your thighs, clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

Your left leg jounces rapidly under your palm, and it concerns you, how unusually restless you're feeling. You take a deep breath, and another, and another, until you feel your whole body begin to relax. You mentally go through a checklist of the contents of your bag - you haven't forgotten anything at the gym. You try to recall your bank balance and whether or not there are any unpaid bills you might have forgotten, but can think of none. It's not until you run through your calendar for the next week that you recognize the source of your nerves. You literally have _nothing _planned. For the next six weeks, with the exception of training, for which you've long since become a law unto yourself since your trainer is all but useless in that regard, you have no obligations of any sort.

The thought makes you both gleeful and nervous at the same time. On the one hand, you've _never _had this much unfettered free time to yourself and it's more than a little exhilarating, but on the other hand, you've never had _this much _unfettered free time to yourself, and now that you do you're not quite sure what to do with yourself.

You're startled out of your revelations by the hiss and squeal of the bus stopping in front of you. Quickly you grab your bag, flash your pass at the driver, and make your way to the very back of the bus to wedge yourself in the far left corner seat.

The trip from the gym to the block where your apartment building resides is just a little under forty-five minutes, but fortunately it doesn't require any transfers, so you simply settle in for the duration, letting your mind wander freely. So freely in fact that you jolt awake at the sound of your street being announced through the crackly P.A. system and have to berate yourself for being so careless as to fall asleep on a public transit vehicle.

Not that you couldn't take care of yourself in most dangerous situations, even in your bone-tired and sore-as-all-get-out condition, but still. Constant vigilance and all that. _Christ, quoting Harry Potter, Lopez? Really?_ You make a mental note to smack Quinn for making you read the damn books. You'll be sure not to let her mention the fact that she only _made_ you read the first one. The bitch is insufferable when she thinks she's in the right - which is most of the time, unfortunately.

You tip your chin in a short but courteous nod to the bus driver (Archie or Artie or something like that) and haul your sorry carcass the two blocks to your complex. By this time your gym bag is dangling loosely from your hand, almost dragging on the ground. And, consequently, hitting every damned obstacle it can find within a ten-foot radius, but you're just too weary to bother caring. Nothing in there that can't handle a little abuse.

_Crack_.

Except maybe for your phone. _Shit._

You pause for a moment in the middle of the apartment lobby where it smacked against the reception counter to consider whether it would be worth the effort to dig the thing out when you're so close to home, and decide against it. You bought the phone with instances like this specifically in mind.

You were positively ecstatic when you stumbled across the YouTube video last year of some moron running a Samsung Rugby through the ringer at, of all things, a Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire. Any phone that can withstand the torture of a mudpit, a turkey leg bashing, and a slingshot ought to be able to survive the less than glamorous life of a barely successful MMA fighter.

Your roommate gives you crap about it constantly, calling it a dinosaur and a dick-shrinker. To which you respond with the insistence that dinosaurs are badass and dick-shrinking isn't really ever going to be a major concern for you, what with the whole being queer thing.

Sighing heavily, you lean forward to gain enough momentum to get your body moving again and trudge over the rickety old elevator in the far corner of the lobby. Normally you prefer to take the stairs, both for exercise and for general interests in self-preservation, since you can't actually remember the last time maintenance had a look at the groaning and creaking monument to early 1900s technology, but today you can't bring yourself to care. Not when you live on the top floor of a nine story building.

You drag your bag all the way within the confines of the tiny room before closing the grate and jabbing the the appropriate button a little harder than strictly necessary. You resist the urge to rest your forehead against the peeling wallpapered surface directly to your right because there is no way that shit isn't crawling with ebola or some other horrifying disease. After what seems an eternity, the elevator screams to a belabored halt and emits a weak ding to announce your arrival. You stumble down the hall to your apartment door and struggle with the zipper of your bag for a moment before giving up and letting your head thud loudly against the doorframe. A minute later, the door swings open and you mumble a unintelligible greeting to your roommate Puck before heading straight for your bedroom.

Leaving your bag by the foot of your bed, you make your way to the en suite bathroom and once again thank your past self for having the good fortune of getting here before Puck so you could claim the master bedroom first. He brushed it off fairly easily, claiming he would have let you have it anyways, gentleman that he is. You hadn't stopped laughing at that until he punched your arm, and even then, you continued to chuckle over it for days after every time you used the bathroom.

You drop the plug into the drain of your tub, a claw-footed monstrosity that you love more than life itself on days like today, and crank the hot water valve all the way open. You stand swaying for a moment, mesmerized by the gushing water flowing into the tub, and have to slap your own cheeks lightly to snap yourself out of it. You know you weren't this tired upon leaving the gym, but somewhere between getting on the bus and getting off again, all of the aches and pains and accumulated abuse of the past couple weeks seem to have caught up with a vengeance.

You strip where you stand, kicking your shoes off lazily and almost losing your balance in the process, and decide to make use of the toilet _before _getting in the tub this time. Awkward hindsight makes for great future foresight, as it turns out.

When the water reaches the halfway point, you add a couple capfuls of your favorite body wash - a particularly triumphant find in a local organic body care shop that matches remarkably well with your favorite cologne. You sigh happily as the scent of citrus and clean leather fills the thick, humid air of your bathroom.

Once the tub is almost full, you shut off the water and cautiously ease yourself in, grimacing as the scalding temperature of the water prickles against your skin. When you've adjusted to the heat enough to sink all the way in, you allow yourself to drop completely below the waterline for a moment, relishing in the heat as it presses against the sensitive skin of your eyelids.

As quickly and efficiently as possible, you tug your thick black mane out of its confining bun and give it a rough washing, and dip your head under again to rinse it. Deciding that nothing else is worth the effort, you sink gratefully against the back of the tub, bracing your arms against the ceramic slats you bracketed in at shoulder height when you first got the tub.

You have a disturbing penchant for falling asleep in the tub, and since your shoulders and arms usually need a good soaking as much as the rest of you, you jury-rigged a means to make that possible while simultaneously preventing yourself from an inadvertent drowning. The result was the most awkward-looking, yet effective armrests ever to be self-installed in a bathtub. If you do say so yourself.

You awake to the sensation of gentle swaying and find yourself in Puck's arms, still naked, as he makes his way from your bathroom to your bed. Before you can even think of shivering from exposure, he has you neatly tucked into your bed, with a towel loosely wrapped around your hair to keep it from soaking your pillow. You mumble a tired thanks and receive a stubble-covered kiss to your forehead for your efforts, and you drift off before he even makes it to your bedroom door.

* * *

**Author's Note: ** That video of the cell phone Santana has is real. It can be found here (youtube dot com backslash watch?v=cv9fgLnYXuc). Check it out, it's hilarious.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

You wake up to the sensation of something cold and liquid splashing against your face, and the foreign sensation snaps you into defense mode before you're even fully awake. You're sitting up, fists at the ready, searching for danger, when tinkling laughter finally breaks through the fog of your semi-consciousness and brings you back to reality.

You squint, bleary-eyed, all around the room, lashes caked in grit and lids heavy with remembered sleep. You stare for a moment, growing increasingly irritated when the blurry objects in your doorway refuse to defog until you realize your contacts are no longer in. _How the hell did that happen? _With a low growl you fumble over the debris littering your bedside table until your fingers locate the familiar plastic of your glasses. Once they're on, you take a second survey of the room, finally spotting the adorable little blonde squirming in Puck's arms where he leans on the door frame, and immediately your body relaxes.

She hits you with another perfectly aimed shot from her neon green water pistol, and laughs again when it makes you sputter indignantly. Puck chuckles, gives the girl a high five in exchange for the water gun, then sets her down.

It takes you the three seconds she uses to cross the room to remember that you fell asleep as Puck left you last night - completely buck naked. Before you have a chance to panic the girl launches herself into your bed, pulling you into a surprisingly strong hug, considering her tiny frame. The open zipper of her fleece jacket catches against the threadbare tank top you're wearing, and you breathe a silent sigh of relief. It's not much, considering you're still essentially naked under it, but it's something at least. As subtly as possible, you tug the silky black sheets tight around your hips, tucking the excess fabric under your ass. _That'll have to do for now._ You smile and return the embrace, but catch your roommate's eye over her shoulder.

There's a reason your wake-up call was long-range, and he knows it. If anything but your alarm were to wake you up prematurely, it's more than likely that you'd clobber it out of reflex before you even realized what was happening. You shudder a little as a flood of images of what could have happened overtake your imagination and do your best to block them out, hugging the kid a little closer to you. Puck must intuit the direction of your thoughts somehow, because the next thing you know he's standing at the side of your bed and clapping a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"Bethie and I been workin' on our sniper skills. Whaddya think, Lopez? Girl might have you beat for accuracy."

You force a smile and ruffle Beth's hair when she lets out another peal of bell-like laughter. Her hair is cropped short in a bob, and it suits her angelic little face perfectly. Her jaw is square, like Puck's, but her cheekbones are all her mother's. And her eyes. Those are definitely Fabray's eyes. Moss and mud, you always tease, but honestly it's a beautiful color on both blondes.

.

"Please, Puckerman. She may have _you _beat, but I actually have skills." You shoot a conspiratorial wink at the girl and choke back a laugh when her mouth gapes and her whole face screws up to return it.

"Daddy says he plays the fish game with you, but you only win 'cause you cheat. Do you cheat, Lolo? Mommy says people only cheat when they're too lazy to do it for real except you're not lazy 'cause you exercise _all the time._ Even on weekends."

It takes you a moment to sort through her rapid fire way of speaking, and when you do you almost bust a gut chortling.

"Do you have any idea what the he-" Puck catches the curse mid-word and coughs to cover it. "What on Earth she's talking about? She keeps talking about some fish game we play, but the only fish game I can think of is Go Fish and apparently that's not it."

"She means C.O.D., Puckerman," and now you have to laugh. Maybe some people think it's childlike, the way Beth thinks, but you're always impressed by how quick she is. You never would have made a connection like that yourself, but once Puck said it out loud, it made perfect sense to you. She has a way of seeing the world you're not sure any adult could master.

Except...there's a niggling thought in the back of your head, but it's gone before you can capture it.

Beth taps the side of your face and you realize you never actually answered her question. You shake your head to rid yourself of the strange feeling of forgetfulness. Not bothering to hide your smirk, you address her with an exaggerated mock-solemnity that has her giggling in the sweetest way.

"Mm-mm, I _never_ cheat at the fish game with Daddy. I always win at it 'cause girls are better than boys, right?"

She shoots a sly glance at her father before nodding resolutely. "Right. Girls rule and boys drool."

"Exactly so, Macbeth."

"Hey! I do _not_ drool! And stop referring to my daughter as a homicidal maniac from the worst Shakespearean play ever written, Lopez. Her mother is going to take us both out if she catches wind of your little nickname."

Another smirk and a heavy eye-roll is all you offer in return.

Puck shakes his head bemusedly and rubs at the scruff of his neck, clearly still a little lost in the conversation. "Wait, hold up. How do you know she means C.O.D.? What's that got to do with fish?"

Beth responds before you can, though she manages nearly as much disdain as you would have. You're strangely proud of the fact. "Daddy, I can _spell._ I know what that means, duh. Cod is a fish, like Captain Hook in Peter Pan."

"Yeah Puckerman, duh," you add helpfully. Beth offers you an enthusiastic high five for your back up while Puck just snorts and shakes his head ruefully. She turns her attention back to you and almost immediately her expression turns grave. You struggle to make yours match.

It's so precious, the way she can make the switch from kid to mini adult like that. You mentally shake yourself out of your own thoughts when you realize Beth has started chattering at you again at breakneck speeds. You're way too introspective right now, and it's more than a little disconcerting.

"-And Daddy said I could wake you up 'cause you been hiding in here long enough and not even cats sleep _this_ long and you gotta get outta bed so you could keep a reg'lar schedule anyways, but I like to sleep a lot when I'm sick so I wanted to make sure you aren't sick 'cause sometimes I like to hide in my bed until I'm better again unless Mommy finds me and brings me ABC soup and Seven-Up Punch. Were you hiding 'cause you're sick? Daddy says you were asleep for a really _looong_ time."

You're a little bewildered, (partly since you had no idea anyone could speak that long without requiring oxygen intake at some point) because her words - or rather her echo of Puck's words - imply you were asleep a lot longer than the 10 or so hours you originally assumed. When you cock an eyebrow at Puck, his slightly pained and embarrassed expression is answer enough. He's probably the reason you're moderately covered, then. Though that still doesn't explain your missing contacts.

"Lolo?"

You blink at the sound of your nickname. What is _with _all the woolgathering today? Puck's embarrassment has morphed into concern, which means he's noticed too. You shrug, more to yourself than anyone else, and push the thought from your mind for the time being.

"No kiddo, I'm not sick. You remember how I like to exercise a lot?" Beth nods furiously, some of the distress clearing from her little face. "Well, I actually do it for my job and sometimes when I was working and exercising too much I would forget to sleep."

Her nose crinkles in disbelief. "That's silly, Lolo. How do you forget to sleep? You just get tired and do it."

You smile at her logic. The girl has a point. "Well, sometimes when I get too tired, I get pretty silly. So when I forgot to sleep, it made me really tired for a long time. So then I had to catch up on all that sleep I missed. But now that I have, I'm not so tired anymore."

She seems to consider this for a minute, until her face lights up in realization. "I know! You could take a break from working and then take a nap. I used to take naps in kindergarten and I _always_ felt better when I was done. I don't have to now 'cause I'm in second grade and naps are for little kids, but I think it would be okay if you took one sometimes." She looks at you thoughtfully before adding, "I won't tell, I promise."

She's looking at you with such earnest care and excitement that you have to pull her in for another hug. You love that about little kids. No one ever looks at you sideways about giving them attention because it's expected. And with it always feels just...more significant when they return it. Especially Beth. She's so artless in her affection. It must be a kid thing. When it comes to adults, everything automatically becomes so ridiculously complicated.

That nagging sensation in the back of your mind tugs at your attention again, like your brain is trying to tell you something you've forgotten, but can't quite get there on its own. You brush it off for now. If it's important, it'll come to you again, you're sure.

"That's a great idea, Macbeth. I talked to my boss and he said I don't have to work as much anymore, so maybe now I can start taking naps if I get too tired. Okay?"

She nods again with a beaming smile, clearly proud that you took her suggestion seriously. Puck catches your eye again, face full of questions, but you just shake your head and send him a look that tells him you'll explain later. He nods once and lets it drop for now. All at once you're grateful that you have the kind of friendship with him where he can trust you enough to let something alone until you're ready to talk about it.

With a bellowing roar, he swoops his daughter up in his arms and throws her over one shoulder, eliciting a piercing shriek from her when the hand braced against her thighs begins to squeeze over ticklish spots. Her childish delight makes you grin even as the shrieking makes you want to slap your hands over your ears. It's just a _bit_ too soon after waking for screaming seven year olds.

"Alright Bethmonster. You've seen Lolo and Mommy's waiting for us, it's time to go. Say goodbye." He pivots in place so that her shining, slightly reddened face is pointed in your direction.

"Bye Lolo! I'm glad you're not sleepy anymore!"

You offer her a smile and a wave and shout after your roommate to pick up some groceries on his way back from Quinn's. His response is lost under another shrieking laugh from Beth, and you chuckle a little. She's so damned bubbly all the time.

Hauling yourself out of bed with an exaggerated groan, you yank on a pair of boxer-briefs before shuffling into the kitchen to find something to eat. Now that you're well and truly up, your stomach feels like it's wrapped around your spine and trying to ingest it, you're so hungry. When staring into the refrigerator yields no positive results, you groan again and amble over to the pantry. After staring longingly at the pancake mix for a few minutes (apparently you can't just wish waffles into being, no matter how hard you try), you settle for a half empty box of Froot Loops.

You're pretty sure they're Beth's, since Puck generally won't eat this crap even when he gets high - he's strictly a Bugles and Cheetos kind of guy. Whatever. Fabray would probably kill Puck for giving their daughter something so sugary anyways, so really you're performing life-saving techniques here. At least, that's what you tell yourself as you shovel a handful directly from the box into your mouth.

You'll regret not eating something more substantial later, but right now, you really just can't bring yourself to care.

Half a box of sugar and a scalding hot shower later, you're starting to feel human again, so you figure it's time to rejoin the human race. Sort of. You yank your phone out of your gym bag, which now smells like three days of sweaty ass - _awesome_ - and see that it has just enough charge to let you know that it's 3:07 PM. You count the hours quickly in your head. Yeah, you were definitely asleep for nearly twenty hours.

_Ho-lee fuck._

That's not a nap, that's a fucking coma. You didn't even know you were _capable_ of sleeping for that long. No wonder Puckerman was freaking out. You plug your phone in and decide that since the day's half over, there's not really any point in going out. Laundry day it is.

Fortunately, your tendency toward obsessive tidiness means you don't really have much to do beyond divvying out the few articles of clothing from your bag into the ready-sorted piles of waiting laundry before you're ready to go. Puck, bless his fuzzy, pointed little head, already took care of the clothes you had left lying on the bathroom floor last night.

You got the extra hampers with the intention of using them as storage for your gear, but after a particularly bad weekend where you weren't paying enough attention while sorting colors and a blue tank top snuck into your whites, turning the whole damned load this awful splotchy grey color, you decided it would be better to just line up all three hampers and sort your clothes into them as you take 'em off. You really don't need a repeat experience. Your wash had looked like a load of dead people skin. _So gross._

You dump all your clothes, a roll of quarters, the detergent bottle, and the box of dryer sheets into a trash bag and grab a second one to bring it all back in, and head out the door. You only have to turn back once (before you make it more than halfway down the hall, thank God) when you remember you don't have a bra on. Or shoes. Or pants. _Awkward._ Not that your legs are anything to be ashamed of. Far from it, in fact. But still. Social propriety and shit.

Your legs are still a bit wobbly from inactivity, not to mention incredibly stiff since you haven't even warmed up yet today, but you take the stairs regardless. No better way to get them working again than lugging twenty-five pounds of dirty clothes down nine flights of stairs. To be safe though, you decide to carry the bag in front of you. Just in case. You're nothing if not pragmatic.

When you get to the basement floor where the laundry room is located, it's completely deserted. After dropping your bag in front of one of the stacked sets of machines you indulge in a little fist pump and a hissed _sweet_. You only have two loads and there are seven sets of washers and dryers for the whole building's tenants. You don't usually have the opportunity to do your laundry in the middle of the afternoon, even during the weekend, so you assumed that the place would be packed and you'd have to fight for just one. This way you can do both loads at once and be out of here twice as quickly.

You chuck the loads into the two washers nearest you and toss the used trash bag in the trashcan. The clean one you knot loosely around the strap of your bra and tank top.

The washers both have a good thirty minutes before they'll be done; it's not really enough time to make going back upstairs worth it, especially if you don't want any of your shit getting jacked. Your favorite hoodie is in the darker load, and it's taken _years_ to get that thing to just the right degree of cottony fluff. You decide to take advantage of the enforced idleness and the empty room and stretch your legs out a little. Reaching automatically for your iPod, you grimace when your hand meets only the pocketless expanse of your clothed hip. Damn. You shrug regretfully to yourself but carry on.

You don't bother with your usual stretch routine. You just want to warm up and loosen your joints a little. You may be on hiatus, but you still have to take care of yourself.

You've always found stretching to be a relaxing activity, ironically. It doesn't take much out of you, but there's enough involved that you can just focus on the muscles you're using as you use them. The burn is delicious. It lets you know what you're doing right and what you're doing wrong, of course, but more than that it's _enlivening._ The hot pulling sensation under your skin is thrilling in a quiet way that a fighter doesn't otherwise get to experience. Most pain comes in searing flashes inflicted by a landed blow or heavy-limbed aches from fatigue. But this almost shouldn't even count as pain, really. It feels too good. Too _right._

The timer's buzzing disrupts your half-trance, so you stand slowly from your squatting position and transfer both loads to the dryers. It'll piss Puck off if he finds out, since you share them, but you stick three dryer sheets in with each load. Sure, one or two will get the job done, but you love how downy soft three makes your clothes. You're pretty sure at this point every bit of fabric you own is at least as soft as flannel, if not more so.

Once the timers have been set - forty seven minutes this time - you go back to stretching. This time you focus solely on your arms and torso. That always takes longer anyhow, so it makes sense to do it during the dryer cycle. Your spine pops in several different spots as you rotate your shoulders and waist, and the sound echoes alarmingly loud over the hum of the machines.

_Christ, I sound like a bag of popcorn in a microwave._

You're just through working out your trapezius muscles when the angry drone of the alarm breaks into your awareness again. Rolling your neck one final time to work out that last kink, you untie the bag from your shoulder straps and shovel clean clothes in indiscriminately. Quinn would be horrified, but nothing in either load could be classified as anything fancier than casual wear at best, so you figure any wrinkles they manage to gather on the trip from the basement to your place aren't really worth worrying over.

You toss the bag over your left shoulder and jog up all nine flights of stairs. Now that you're all stretched out, and about as rested as anyone who isn't an _actual _coma patient can be, the trip takes hardly any effort. You dump the clothes on your bed once you reach your apartment and begin pulling out shirts first. You don't know why, but it's always shirts first, then pants and shorts, then underwear and bras, then socks. OCD must run in your genetic history somewhere. Not that you'll ever know.

You let your mind start to wander as your body takes over the familiar brainless task of folding and stacking clothes. Beth pops into your head first, probably because Puck left her water gun on your bedside table. Her endless optimism and good humor is a mystery to you. Not that she has a particularly rough life, with two parents who love her dearly (not to mention an 'aunt' who spoils her at any given opportunity) and a seemingly endless bevy of little friends to play with. It just seems strange that she should be so unrestrainedly _happy_ when you consider her parents.

Puck is a pretty cheerful guy, but his sense of humor has always been more puerile than childlike, really. It's part of his charm, in a roundabout sort of way. He's leveled out quite a bit in the six years you've known him, but he's still a hell-raiser with a tendency towards moodiness when he gets drunk. Which is unnecessarily often, in your opinion.

Beth's mother, Quinn (or Fabray, as you prefer), on the other hand, is an enigma. She's one of your closest - and if you're being brutally honest with yourself, _only_ - friends, but sometimes you feel like you'll never completely get her. Some days she seems completely at ease with the world, but others it seems like she's about to drown in her own dark cynicism, it's so heavily present in her thoughts and words. She has a cutting wit that matches yours, which is perhaps what drew you to her when Puck first introduced you, and a dryly sarcastic sense of humor that you kind of love, but you can always tell that underneath it all there's a tiny little girl who wants desperately to believe in fairytales, just waiting for a chance to shine.

It would be tragic, except for the way she is with Beth. Puck is the same way. All the cynicism and regret just seems to melt away when that little girl is around, and you completely understand. She's a special kind of pure that you can't help but love with all you are.

You were shocked when you first found out that Noah Puckerman of all people had a kid, and after meeting Quinn Fabray, you had to wonder what kind of future any kid with such complete opposites for parents could have, but now you know. That kid brings the best out of both of them.

If she'd turned out to be any other kind of person, you're not entirely sure Puck and and Quinn would have been able to handle raising her, especially after they broke up for good about four years ago. But for that sweet little kid's sake, they pulled together. They could even be mistaken for a family, some days. You can see it now when they're together. They would never have worked out as a couple, but they make the best kind of friends and partners for raising a kid. It's completely bizarre, but in your less guarded moments, you have to admit it's kind of beautiful.

You have to stop for a moment when your throat unexpectedly tightens. You feel a lump there, so you swallow hard to force it away. Except it doesn't go away. It settles in the middle of your chest and sort of...takes root. Like it's slowly blooming. Tears start to prick at your eyes as you think about Puck and Quinn and Beth and their dysfunctional-yet-perfect little not-family.

It doesn't happen often, and never before when you've been on your own, but every great once and awhile you get this feeling like you're just a hanger-on to their strange little unit. Puck and Quinn both welcomed you into their lives with open arms, and Beth loves you as if you were actually related, but you still feel like an afterthought sometimes.

The lump grows.

It feels...borrowed, this swelling emptiness in your chest. Or maybe stolen is a better word, because there's a tiny sliver of guilt that needles around its edges, because really, what right do you have to feel this way? Your life hasn't exactly been a Shakespearean tragedy, even at its worst. Sure you've had some hard-hitting blows in the past, but nothing you haven't been able to shrug off eventually. There are thousands, maybe even millions of people, right here in this country, who have it so much worse than you do. It's not yours, this pain, for all that you're the only one who can feel it. You earn all the pain in your life one way or another, but this...this is foreign and inexplicable and a little _frightening_ in its intensity. That's what disturbs you the most. You're rarely ever _frightened_ by pain anymore.

And yet, here you are, standing beside your bed and staring at your half folded laundry, unable to do anything but feel it and fear it. It's become this sort of...hollow bubble of _nothing_ right at the center of you, and it feels like it's slowly expanding, and pushing out all the _something_ that makes you up. Now that you think about it, it doesn't actually hurt, per se, but it's not a good feeling by any means. It makes your fingers clench and your hands shake. It makes your breath come in short pants, like your lungs are seconds away from completely forgetting their primary function. It makes you pause in the middle of menial, everyday tasks, because suddenly you're so full of this _nothing_ that your body is overwhelmed by it and can't even follow through with the simple motion of folding a pair of running shorts.

You don't feel sad, really. Or angry. Or anything you can readily define. Except _empty._ It makes you think that maybe the bubble is close to popping or something, because you're certain that at any moment your chest will just cave in on itself. Except that can't be right, because the bubble keeps on growing, like it's made of steel or something stronger and even more unforgiving, until you have to brace your hands on your mattress and take deep, controlled breaths just to remain on your feet.

It's not all consuming. It doesn't rage or burn or flood or drown you. It's just _there._ Inexorable. Implacable. You screw your eyes shut, then relax your face entirely so you can focus solely on your breathing. Slow, steady, measured. _In, _two, three, four, five._ Out, _two, three, four, five. _In_, two, three, four, five. _Out_, two, three-

"Lopez! Come help me with this shit or I'm leaving your damned jerky out on the porch for Patches to steal again!"

You jerk slightly at Puck's interruption and your breath catches on the four-count, before whooshing out in a gush. You stand up straight and brush invisible lint off your tank-top, then walk out into the living room. The forefront of your mind is busy readying a joking threat in response to Puck. Only a tiny part your consciousness, a negligible percentage really, notes that the bubble is still there. It's not as big as it was before, and your hands have loosened, but it's there.

Your sloping amble turns into a strut as soon as you pass from the hall to the living room. You don't want Puck seeing you with the remnants of some weak-ass siezure or whatever that was still painted across your face. Especially not if he's going to get all up in your face about the gym. Which he does. Of course.

"So what the fuck, Lopez? You finally kick that jackass in the balls like I've been telling you to?"

You grin at his crude language. It just looks so...bizarre, seeing a grown man in a muscle tee and a mohawk cursing while he's putting _apple juice_ in the fridge. It's a hilarious juxtaposition, but at the same time, it's so _Puck._ He always keeps the place stocked with Beth's favorites, just in case. He only gets her every other weekend unless extenuating circumstances occur, but he still takes care to be prepared. It's sweet.

"No, Schuester's back and he did it for me. God, I hope he fires the sonuvabitch."

Puck freezes in the middle of restocking the pantry to stare at you. "Whoa, hold up. Schuester? Sweatervest dude? He's back? As in, he was gone? Where the hell did he go?"

You tell him the whole story as you help put away the rest of the groceries, taking particular pleasure in relaying the pure terror written all over Hudson's smug face when Schuester mentioned going over the schedules himself. Puck met the guy once, and immediately disliked him. He admitted, rather sheepishly, that Hudson was exactly the kind of guy he probably would have been best friends with in high school. You just snorted and made some kind of jab about how he probably would have slept with Hudson's girlfriend or something. He didn't dispute you, which only made you laugh harder.

By the time you've finished explaining the whole mess, the groceries are put away and you're perched on the counter with a diet coke in one hand and a slab of jerky in the other. You're so going to pay for your shitty eating choices tomorrow, but right now you're too busy being excited over your sort-of vacation to care.

Puck slaps your thigh to get your attention, causing you to startle and almost spill your soda.

"What the fuck, Puck?"

He smirks at you and you glare back. You'd normally smack him in return, but you're loathe to put down your snack, and he's just not worth the effort anyways.

"Dude, snap out of it. Quit being such a fucking Mopez."

There's nothing but silence for a few moments (stunned, for your part) before you crack up.

"_Mopez!?_ Oh my God, Puckerman. Do you just sit around all day with your thumb up your ass, thinking this shit up? Seriously."

His face splits into a huge, boyish sort of grin, triumph shining through his expression over his success at brightening your mood. "Whatever bro. That shit is genius. It's _three times_ genius, because it's got three different meanings."

Your eyes nearly fall out of your head they're rolling so hard, but your smile widens too. "Oh God. I don't know if I wanna hear this."

"Nuh uh, check it out. Mopez like your name plus 'mo - as in homo, 'cause you're a big ole lezzy."

"Charming."

"Shut up man, appreciate the brilliance."

You snort rudely. "Right, brilliance. Carry on."

He glares at you, but plows ahead, completely undaunted. "Then there's Mopez like, mopey, 'cause you're all down and whiney and shit - though that's soon to be fixed."

Your smile falters a little at that. You hadn't realized your inexplicable little freakout from earlier was that apparent. You'll have to keep yourself in better check from now on - you don't need Puck telling Quinn that you're losing your cool. She'll go all mother-mode on you, and while you appreciate her concern, you really don't want to have to punch Beth's mother in the face because she's too busy fussing over you to realize she's driving you to distraction.

Puck continues his explanations, blithely unaware of your internal tangent.

"Thirdly, and this is the best, in my opinion, Mopez like your name plus a moped."

He grins at you expectantly, waiting for you to clue in on the joke. Your mind is still stuck on its previous train of thought, so you just stare at him blankly.

Heaving an aggravated sigh at your lack of response, he begrudgingly elaborates. "'Cause you're like a moped. You're not a full motorcycle, like the the Puckasaurus over here," he smirks and gestures to his torso and...somewhat lower (you're really getting concerned about the amount of eye rolling this conversation is inducing). "But," he holds up a finger, "you're still kind of cool and you're way less intimidating, so chicks still like riding you. Bam. How's that for some figurative fucking langauge." His grin is just as wide as ever, and all you can do is shake your head and return his high five. And laugh. Because you have to admit, that was kind of funny.

"You're such a fucking perv, Puckerman."

"Whatever, dude. I'm awesome and you know it. Now go put on some clothes."

You look down at yourself in confusion. "Uhm, what do you think I'm wearing now?"

He rolls his eyes and stares at you like you just said something particularly idiotic. "I mean _real _clothes. We are going _ooooooow-oooooooot!"_

He howls and pumps his hips to emphasize his point, and you chuckle at him.

"Seriously Lopez, we are going to celebrate."

You frown in puzzlement. "Celebrate what?"

"You, genius! You are finally gonna start getting treated like the badass motherfucker you are at that gym, and if you're lucky, it'll be with someone who isn't- whaddya call him again?"

You flash a shark grin. "Finncompetent. Or Fetus Face. Take your pick."

He chortles appreciatively. "Right, well if you're lucky his ass'll be grass and you'll get someone who can actually do their fucking job. Totally worth a celebration."

"I don't know, Puck, I haven't done jack shit today, I don't think going out is such a great idea on top of that..." you begin hesitantly. A night on the town actually sounds kind of amazing, but you can't help but feel a little guilty at your total lack of productivity today.

"Oh fuck that, man. A couple of days _not_ busting your perfectly round ass ain't gonna kill you. C'mon Lopez, live a little. Besides, we're not just celebrating tonight. We're on a mission."

"Oh God."

He flips down his aviators and strikes a pose, gripping his right wrist in his left hand and spreading his feet apart, and drops his voice into a lower register.

"We're on a mission from _God."_

"Puckerman, _no._"

He grins mischieviously. "Aaaw yeah, Lopez. We gonna get you _laid."_

"Jesus Christ."

* * *

**A/N: I know, I know, no Brittana. Rest easy, my intrepid readers, it's on its way. I don't believe I've mentioned before, so I will do so now: this will be a slow burning romance, but it is a Brittana fic, so it's gonna start happening. And soon. I actually have a trip coming up at the end of May (when I would normally intend to post the next chapter) so I'm hoping to to get Chapter Four up the week before I leave, which would be in three weeks or so. Fingers crossed.**

**Also, for those interested, I also post these chapters - and my other stuff - on my tumblr account (jellyman-kelly dot tumblr dot com). I also will, if I ever get the time, be posting the rare bits of fan art I've created or intend to create, as the case may be, to accompany the story. As the story progresses, you may want to check it out. I'll be sure to let you know when that starts happening, though.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: For Swinging Cloud, who is bound and determined to see me get some, regardless of how creepy or inappropriate her methods. You guys wish you had a soulmate like mine.**

* * *

Chapter Four

Loud.

It's probably really telling that your first concrete thought is to note the noise level in the place. But it's not like you're wrong. It _is _loud.

_Really_ loud.

The club is called Beast, which Puck claims is only appropriate since apparently you're an animal, at least in the cage (the irony is so thick you could choke on it, though it seems to escape Puck's notice entirely). It's one of those places that looks like it was modeled after the fake-as-fuck clubs that one _usually _only sees on crappy teen drama shows. The walls are all lined with massive, floor-to-ceiling panes of muted neon lights alternating in green and blue. The blue panes have water or else some other clear liquid in them that is constantly bubbling, like someone just dropped an enormous alka seltzer in an equally enormous glass of water.

You lean over to Puck where he's perched on the barstool next to you, and scream into his ear, "I'm pretty sure this place is what the inside of their mind would look like if a mad scientist dropped a shit-ton of acid."

Puck grins and shouts back, "I know, it's awesome, right?"

He leans over the bar - neon yellow, of course - and motions to one of the bartenders (who has the biggest mouth you've seen on a human outside of Mick Jagger). He must have a standing order because the guy starts fixing a drink without Puck ever saying a word to him. A minute later he sets the drink down in front of Puck - and then follows it with a second. You cock an eyebrow at Puck.

"I thought you were going light tonight?"

He grins and slides the second drink in front of you with an impish grin. "Oh, I am. This is for you."

You glance from the drink to your roommate warily. It's not that you don't trust Puck; you do. Well, as much as it's wise to trust anyone who willingly sports a mohawk past the age of sixteen. Which is not terribly wise at all, come to think of it.

"C'mon Lopez." His tone is pleading despite the fact that he has to yell over the pulsating bass of the music. He jerks a thumb in the direction the bartender who made his - your - drinks. "Evans is totally cool. I went to school with him. And like I said, I'm going easy tonight. I got your back."

Your eyes roll almost reflexively. "You're always easy, Puckerman. That's half your problem."

He waggles his eyebrows at you and the grin returns. "I see no problem there."

"Whore."

"Bore."

"Fuck you, Puckerman. I kick people's teeth in for a living. Nothing here-" you flick your hand across your torso, "-comes even close to boring."

He meets your gaze challengingly. "Prove it. Have a drink or two, if you're so fuckin' rad." His features soften and he leans in earnestly. "C'mon," he implores again, "you gotta let loose a little, babe. Nothing will happen, I swear."

The petname catches your attention. He hasn't called you that in a long time, but it comes from a place of deep affection and friendship. He knows your past, your reservations, but he's asking you to try and step past them.

Your hands flatten and spread against the surface of the bar, bracketing the glass tumbler. You stare broodingly at the drink for a moment, weighing your options. It's true, you haven't really 'let loose' and just had a good time in a club or bar since- you cut that line of thought down where it stands. _It's been awhile,_ you think to yourself sternly, _that's as far as it needs to go._ You glance up a Puck, who is watching you cautiously, and then to the bartender, who just looks confused and a little affronted by your apparent reserve.

With a long, deep sigh, you wrap your left hand around the sweating drink. Puck cheers and claps you on the back, nearly sending your nose into the amber colored concoction. A swizzle stick _tinks_ lightly against the rim of the glass, and liquid sloshes over rocks, sliding precariously close to the edges. Your hand is steady though, and nothing spills.

"Easy there, tiger, it's just a drink," you admonish. Puck's smile only widens. He's bouncing in his seat now, like a little kid. He looks so damned excited, you don't have the heart to tell him he looks like a five year old doing the potty dance. "What the hell is this, anyways?" You hold the drink up at eye level and notice the red splotches buried under all the ice. Muddled cherries. You think you see a sliver of orange too, and your curiosity spikes.

Puck just shrugs and continues grinning at you like an idiot.

You take a cautious sip, expecting something sugary-sweet. You're pleasantly surprised. There is sweetness, certainly, but your eyes widen when the smooth taste of Canadian rye mingled with bitters spreads across your tongue as well. You look to Puck with shock, and then to the bartender, who is grinning at you expectantly.

"Is this an Old Fashioned? Like, an _old fashioned_ Old Fashioned?" You would cringe at the awe present in your voice if you weren't so busy being, well, _awed._

The bartender shakes blonde shag out of his eyes and gives you a proud nod. He leans a little closer over the bar so he doesn't have to shout. "Puck said you weren't much for girly drinks, and you just looked to me like the kind of woman who could appreciate a properly done cocktail, so I took a shot. I can't tell you what a relief it is to finally serve one those without ruining the whole thing with soda water. Or completely destroying the cherries. Y'wouldn't believe how many people come in wanting 'Don Draper's drink' and freaking out when I don't do it just the way he did. Like Jon Hamm knowsh the firsht thing about a propah cocktail."

You crinkle your nose at the thought (and a little bit at his truly _terrible _Sean Connery imitation - although you suppose he gets points for actually making it recognizable), and he laughs at your reaction. _Fucking Mad Men. Only good thing about that show is getting to watch Christina Hendricks be a champion HBIC. And the way she leaves a room_. Grinning slightly to yourself, you offer him a fist bump with your right hand after taking another appreciative sip.

"Name's Lopez, Steven Tyler, and you can make me one of these any time you feel like it."

He laughs again and smacks his knuckles against yours. Puck is watching the whole exchange with a decidedly relieved expression. It comes to you that he feels more responsible for your enjoyment of tonight than is entirely necessary, and it strangely makes you want to hug him. You settle for rolling your eyes at him before returning to your drink. He returns the favor with an affectionate smirk.

"Steven Tyler, Lopez? Seriously? What does that even mean?"

You shoot a glance at the bartender, who seems just as baffled as Puck. _I am so in the wrong crowd for subtlety. _ Biting back a sigh, you try again.

"Hmm. I guess it doesn't really fit, does it? Not with the blonde," you concede, gesturing carelessly to Evan's mop top with your drink. You stare at him musingly for a moment, then offer, "Cameron Diaz?"

Puck continues to glance between the two of you until it finally clicks. Then, because he's Noah Puckerman and he can't do anything without being completely over the top about it, he busts into laughter so raucous that he actually falls off his stool. He knocks into a woman behind him and immediately begins to apologize in between guffaws. You crane your neck to see over his shoulder, but the woman is already working her way through the crowds in the direction you assume the restrooms lie. You catch a flash of blonde and glittering purple before she disappears into the crowd.

Puck turns back to the bar, his grin slightly sheepish as he fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. He hands Sam a twenty and shrugs when the bartender just looks at the bill curiously.

Puck shrugs. "Told her I'd buy her a drink when she gets back from the bathroom."

You backhand his arm lightly and chuckle. "Way to go Puckerman. Really brought your A-game tonight. We've been here, what? Fifteen minutes? Twenty, tops? And you're already pissing women off."

He gives you an offended look that doesn't quite mask his sly grin. "Whatever, dude. That shit was funny."

"It was? 'Cause I'm still kind of lost..." Sam interjects.

You shake your head disparagingly, but let a tiny smile curve your lips to show you're joking. "Your lips, Lames Blonde. Your mouth-to-face ratio is way off. I'm pretty sure if I took a grouper and Justin Bieber, smashed them together, and wiped away the bloody mess, I'd get you. Seriously Guppy Lips, you must go through chapstick the way Puckerman goes through lotion and tissues on a Saturday night."

Puck whacks your shoulder and scowls at you, but you can tell he's laughing under the feigned irritation. "Dude, don't be bitch. Are you questioning my badassness? Have you seen my guns?" He flexes his biceps and jerks his chin at you. "And seriously? Guppy Lips? C'mon Lopez, you're better than that. Besides, the dude has a name."

"Sam Evans, to be specific," the bartender adds brightly, but waves Puck off with a good natured grin. "It's cool man, she's funny."

You consider him silently for a moment before speaking. "No, Puckerman's right. Guppy Lips doesn't quite fit..." You pretend to think it over for another second, your voice taking on a falsely grave air. "Them lips ain't as froggy as they are...fishy." You feel a devious smirk start to tug at your lips. It's almost a negligible change, like all of your expressions, but Puck knows you enough to recognize trouble brewing. He muffles an amused groan behind his drink, and it broadens your expression ever so slightly. "Trouty, one might even say. Yeah, Trouty Mouth. That's the winner."

Sam tosses his head back and lets out a huge laugh, while Puck just shakes his head beside you.

"Trouty Mouth, huh? I gotta admit, I kind of like it."

You smirk at him from behind your glass. "Well thank God you do. I'm assuming you just unlock your humongous jaw and swallow anyone you decide not to like whole, like a python."

This sends the bartender into another gale. You catch Puck's gaze out of the corner of your eye and you both shout in perfect unison.

"Wanky!"

Once you've both stopped chuckling, you take a couple more sips of your cocktail, sighing happily at the pleasant heat that's started in your belly. Puck must notice your contentment, because he leans in with a gleam in his eye.

"Good thing, Lopez?"

You turn to look him directly in the eye. He looks so hopeful, so intent on your answer. You let a small, genuine smile take your lips slowly.

"Yeah Puck, good thing."

"Awesome, bro. You work on that, I'ma go work the crowd. The Puckasaurus is on the hunt tonight, and I smell fresh meat!"

You pat his shoulder condescendingly. "Puckasaurus? Come up with that all on your own? Clever girl."

You hear Sam guffaw behind you as Puck huffs and stomps off into the mass of dancing bodies with a roll of his eyes.

You turn back to meet Sam's friendly gaze and he beams hugely at you. "Jurassic Park, nice. You're alright Lopez. Drinks on me tonight."

He waves you off dismissively when you try to protest, so you give in and raise your glass in a toast. It really is a _good_ fucking cocktail.

He leaves you to your drink after that, and you're grateful. Not that Sam isn't a good guy, Puck was probably right about that much, but you're not really one for small talk. You're content to sip your drink and watch the crowds. The dance floor is packed to full capacity with people, all dancing, grinding, or in a few less than visually pleasant instances, outright humping. You don't bother to repress the little shudder that runs through you at the thought of that much contact with a complete stranger.

_Ain't nothing sexy about grown adults rubbing up on each other like teenagers in heat. Whatever happened to actual _dancing? You suppose it's possible that your opinion on the matter could change, given the right partner, but seeing as this is a straight bar, that's clearly not happening tonight.

You toss back the rest of your drink in one quick motion and spin to drop the empty glass on the bar behind you. When you find a second cocktail directly in front of you, ready and waiting, Sam catches your eye and gives you a friendly wink, then makes a shooing motion with his hands to encourage you to take the drink.

There's a long-forgotten but somehow familiar warmth starting low in your belly, and your brain is starting to feel a little light. Clearly your extended alcohol abstinence has taken its toll on your constitution. The thought makes you nervous, almost out of reflex. Your life is about control - control over your health, your body, your life. There are so many things beyond your influence, it seems ludicrous to give up dominance over the few aspects of yourself you have claim over.

Yet, at the same time, the idea of just letting go, even if it's only enough to push past pleasantly buzzed to tipsy, has a certain appeal. For the first time in a long time, you don't have to be completely responsible for yourself every second of every minute. Even though you can't see him right now, you know Puck's not far off, completely prepared to step in as a sort of human safety net, to take the reins, should you decide to loosen your grip for once.

Suddenly, all your caution and consideration seems just a little ridiculous. _It's a _drink_, Lopez, not a goddamn marriage proposal._ You snatch up the drink and take a long drink. Your eyebrows nearly disappear into your hairline as the liquor flows into your system. You're pretty sure the first cocktail wasn't this strong.

You cast another glance in Sam's direction, but he's busy mixing one of those fruity sort of drinks that you wouldn't be caught dead drinking. He sets it on the bar and flashes a wide grin to the drink's recipient, but just as they reach for the drink (the pale, fine-boned fingers tug annoyingly at your memory) your view is blocked by a stocky set of shoulders and an over-muscled chest.

You glance up in irritation, only to see a smugly arrogant grin flashing back at you. The guy's short, wiry brown hair is gelled in that weird, bed-head style that half the male population under thirty seems so fond of sporting these days, and you only just stop from laughing out loud at him. _Seriously, who models their grooming routine after a sparkly gay vampire and then expects to be able to pick up anyone over the age of fourteen?_

He presses in close, until you're practically choking on the cloud of cheap cologne surrounding him. His eyes are sharp and glittering black, trailing over you like you're some sort of rare creature to be captured, and it immediately sets you on edge. His features are square and blocky in that sort of classic All-American football hero sort of way, but on him the angles look cruel, rather than strong.

"Josh Coleman." He stares at you expectantly, and you get the impression that he's waiting for you to be dazzled by his looks and presumed charm, rather than looking for a return introduction. He probably couldn't care less about your name, and you think it's likely the only thing the two of you have in common. So you paste on a blank look and sip your drink placidly.

"No, I'm sorry. You must have me confused with someone else. My name's not Josh." You pause for a moment, then add as an afterthought, "Thank _God_."

His confidence deflates almost instantly, and internally you're laughing hysterically. _Too easy._ He opens his mouth, possibly to correct you, but you don't intend to find out. Without another word, you turn away and slip into the crowd.

Right away you're overcome with the sensation of too much heat and too little room, so you quickly push your way through to the other side of the floor. Once you break free of the crowd, your chest expands as you suck in a deep breath, relieved to have your personal space restored to you. You knock the rest of your drink back, grimacing when a particularly strong surge of bitters hits your taste buds.

You almost snarl when a tiny woman stumbles into your side and immediately begins apologizing with far more emotion, enthusiasm and fucking _volume_ than is entirely necessary. You shove your empty glass into her hands and stalk away, leaving her to juggle it and (bizarrely) what looks like the _two_ purses she was already carrying in her hands.

_Some people are just too freakish to be allowed in public._

You slowly do a spinning search, trying to find somewhere to sit. The alcohol is going straight to your head and it's making you just the tiniest bit dizzy. Finally you settle for propping yourself up against an open patch of wall space (solid drywall, fortunately, since you're pretty sure leaning against a bright, glowing panel of of bubbling liquid would really hinder the whole equilibrium reclamation process).

The wall is sturdy and comforting against your shoulder, so you let yourself just enjoy the loose, floating sensation that's come over you. You don't remember getting drunk as being this relaxing, but it's a nice change of pace.

"Hey there stranger. What're you up to over here?"

You try to blink your way through the fuzziness clouding your vision. That voice sounds _so _familiar. When your focus finally sharpens, the golden haze resolves itself into a cloud of flaxen waves surrounding sparkling blue eyes. Your whiskey-soaked mind is having a hard time putting a name to the face, but she looks damned familiar and _damned_ fine, so you decide not to worry over it too much.

You're not quite drunk enough to miss the fact that her tone could be construed as patronizing if you so chose, and you're just drunk enough not to care.

"'M holdin' up th' wall." You glare accusingly at said structure as you press your shoulder into it more firmly. "Quit fuckin' slouchin', lazy moth'fucker." Your tongue feels thick and sluggish as you force the words out around it.

Her laugh is half giggle, half chuckle, and approximately 15,000 percent sexier than the sexiest thing you've ever heard (whatever that might be - you'll think on what it is later.) You smirk triumphantly, pleased that even in your intoxicated state you can still muster enough of your wits to make her laugh. It doesn't even bother you that you just thought of a giggle as sexy.

"I gotta say, you look even better without the shiner."

It takes you a minute to understand what she means by that particular comment, but when it finally hits you, it hits you _hard._ _Holy fuck, it's the blonde!_ In a slightly less compromised state of mind, you would have kicked yourself for that wholly unoriginal thought, but right now you're too busy internally losing your metaphorical shit. It's _her._ The chick you were absolutely positive you'd never see again. The chick who turned your whole world upside down with little more than a casual caress.

Suddenly your mouth is completely devoid of moisture, and your hands are clenching so tight that it would hurt if you could actually feel them.

"I...Uh...Yeah. Tryin' out a new look." You cringe at the stutter in your voice. You are _not_ a stutterer, goddammit. You inhale with the intent of spinning out an infinitely smoother line, but the air catches in your throat and solidifies into a lump when the blonde braces a hand against the wall just over your left shoulder and leans in.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. It's kinda loud in here."

No one should sound that sexy while attempting to shout over the best efforts of a shitty house DJ to inflict simultaneous club-wide deafness and epilepsy. But she does. Your eyes fall to her lips, sparkling pink with the sheen of lip gloss, to her shirt, sparkling blue with the glitter of sequins, and back up to her hair, sparkling white-gold with the reflection of the overhead lights.

"Fuckin'..._sparkly_."

A slow grin parts her lips - _fuck, even her _teeth_ are shiny_ - and you realize that yet another side effect of intoxication has escaped your recollection until too late. You have absolutely nothing even remotely resembling a filter when you get drunk. Which is all the more embarrassing considering you've only had _two_ drinks.

Your mouth opens to...apologize? You don't even know, and you never get the chance to find out. Before you can so much as wheeze out a single syllable, the hand on the wall lands on your shoulder (_why_ did you wear a tank top tonight?) and slides down to wrap loosely around your wrist, leaving goosebumps and quivering muscles in its wake.

"I think the wall has gotten enough of your attention tonight - it's my turn."

Because your attention has been so divided until now. Yeah. Motherfuckin'. Right.

She tugs at your wrist, pulling you from the reassuring sturdiness of the wall, and almost right away you feel off balance.

"Wha- where? Why? I mean, what're y- I mean, what're we doin'?" You stave off the urge to beat your forehead against the spot your shoulder had just occupied a moment before. _Lock it _up_, Lopez!_

Mercifully, the blonde doesn't comment on your apparent inability to form coherent sentences. She simply tightens her grip on your wrist and hauls you towards the dance floor. You take a brief second to make a mental note to check an anatomy book in the near future, because apparently the nerves in your wrist are directly tied to the muscles in your stomach, and you'd really like to figure out how the fuck _that_ works.

Then your mind catches up to direction of your body and your toes curl in your Converse as you dig your heels in to halt your progress.

When the woman notices you're no longer allowing her to lead you along, she turns back to you, questions written all over her face.

_Her really pretty face. With really pretty eyes. Like, who has eyes like that? They're all...slanty and shit. Like a lizard._ Your nose crinkles. _Gross, Lopez, not like a lizard. Like...like...like a cat. Yeah. Except blue. Really blue. And really pretty._

The fingers around your wrist tighten again, and your stomach clenches again in response, dislodging you from your less-than-eloquent internal monologuing. You blink once, twice, before regaining your bearings. _Right, dance floor. No fucking way, Blondie._

Blue eyes laser into yours, curious and kind, but sharply focused.

"What's wrong?"

The question manages to be gentle, despite having to carry over the manic beat of the music, and draws you in, making you lean towards her just a little. She responds in kind by taking a step back toward you, never breaking contact with your eyes or your wrist.

You take a slow breath before answering. You're an adult, and you can speak to a good looking woman without turning into a pile of stuttering, Hispanic Jell-O, dammit.

"Not really a fan of crowds. Or dancing."

_Oh hell._

Pouts should really not be that attractive on a grown woman.

"Not even one dance? For me?"

What you open your mouth to say, is _I don't even know you_. What comes out is, "'Kay."

_What the hell?_

You don't have time to dwell on your body's apparent systematic mutiny against your will, because as soon as the damning syllable leaves your lips, she's slammed up against you in what has to be the world's most awkwardly sexy bearhug ever enacted. She's got at least five inches on you with those heels on (yum), so your face gets shoved directly into her neck and collarbone. Which is probably uncomfortable, but you're too busy inhaling a heady mixture of sweat, saccharine alcohol, and floral perfume to give a flying fuck. Because Jesus H. Christ, this chick smells good.

Then suddenly you're stumbling forward once again, towed along behind her as she leads the way to the dance floor. She stops you both just on the outskirts of the floor, apparently mindful of your obvious distaste for excessive human contact, and it makes you irrationally grateful.

She turns and pulls you to her, right hand finally dropping your wrist, only to curl effortlessly around your hip to brace against the small of your back. Her left hand trails up your other arm before hooking around your neck to toy with the small hairs that have escaped the high, slicked back ponytail you threw your hair into before you left the apartment. It makes a shiver roll up your spine, and a smirk play on her lips when she notices. If your head wasn't spinning before...

She sets you both swaying in a slow rhythm, slower than the song playing would probably call for, but it works somehow. One knee works its way teasingly between yours, until your black denim-clad thighs and her bare ones are meshing in a loose tangle. Your hands lift of their own accord and settle lightly on her waist, just above the waistband of her barely-there shorts. You can feel the contract and release of each rolling sway as it happens under your touch, and it feels good. Too good, really.

She starts to tilt her chin down, bringing that smirk closer and closer. It occurs to you that she doesn't really have far to go because, between her hands on you, and yours on her, there is _maybe_ an inch of space between you.

She turns her head at the last second so that her cheek bumps and slides along yours until her lips - and more importantly, her hot breaths - reach your ear.

You're so fixated on the warm air tickling the shell of your ear that you nearly miss the word that accompanies it.

"Brittany."

You pull back reflexively to meet her eyes, and her hands tighten in response, holding you from moving too far away. She grins at you and raises an eyebrow.

"Brittany?"

The grin widens.

"That's me."

"Oh." _Duh._ "Hi, Brittany."

Her fingers drift higher into your hairline, scritching against your scalp in a way that is both soothing and insanely arousing. Your eyes definitely do _not_ almost roll back into your head.

"Hi..."

It takes you far longer than you're comfortable admitting to remember that you haven't give your name in return, and you feel your face flame.

"Lopez," you supply huskily. You're pretty sure your voice is at least an octave lower than it should be, but you're banking on the noise of the club to mask the fact.

Her eyebrow stays in place, and her head cocks adorably. She's still watching you, waiting for something.

Your eyebrows crinkle and your own head cocks as you try to think of what it might be. Your cognitive functions being what they are at the moment, you don't get terribly far.

She shakes her head a little and rolls her eyes, but her grin doesn't fade. "What, no first name?"

That shakes your brain free. You stare at her blankly for a moment, caught off guard. You can't actually remember the last time someone specifically wanted your first name for something that wasn't related to gym contracts or financial records. Even just an hour ago, meeting Puck's friend Sam for the first time, you're fairly certain you only gave him your surname. And what's more, he had seemed content with it. Your gaze turns careful now, and searching. Not because you don't trust her, but because she is just so entirely foreign to everything you're used to. It's unsettling, to be sure, but more than that, it's a little thrilling. You're just not used to being thrilled.

Her thigh bumps a little higher between yours, jolting you from your thoughts with a gasp.

"Santana," you breathe out. She pouts and leans in again, practically placing her ear against your lips. You move in, no more than a couple millimeters, and repeat your name, letting it rasp off your tongue in a flow of long 'a's and drawn out 'n's, the way your abuela used to say it.

Your lips twist in a smirk of their own when you catch the ripple of her shoulders. When she turns to meet your gaze again, the sparkle is gone from her eyes, replaced by ever expanding pupils and a nearly indigo haze of lust. She looks about ready to swallow you whole, and you feel about ready to let her, when the hip tucked against your own suddenly vibrates. For once you're actually grateful for the obnoxious music, because at least it's loud enough to cover the mortifying little squeak that just escaped your throat.

Brittany flashes you an apologetic glance before shoving her hand into her pocket (you can't believe shorts that tiny actually _have_ pockets, but whatever) to retrieve her cell phone. Before you can even move, she presses a wet kiss to the corner of your mouth and whispers a seductive "don't go anywhere, now," and then she's gone.

You stand in the middle of the floor, shell-shocked and uncomfortably turned on, staring after her. You wonder shortly if there is ever going to be a time when you're not left staring after her in some form of shock or surprise. Probably not.

You stay that way, fingers grazing the edge of your lip where she'd kissed you, until a clap on the shoulder brings you back to the present. You turn to find Puck watching you with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

"What's happenin' Mopez?"

You roll your eyes at the nickname and chuck him on the shoulder. "Whaddyou want, Puckerman."

His gaze drops, and now you think he looks guilty. This does not bode well for you.

"Can we go outside for a sec?"

You nod and give him a shove in the direction of the door, and he grins but still doesn't quite meet your eyes.

When you finally make it outside, the blast of cool air feels like a bucket of water to the face, clearing your head and calming you all at once. You hadn't realized just how warm you'd gotten in the club, though you suppose it's not that surprising, considering you were practically dry humping the world's hottest woman. You smile a little and touch your lips again. You'll have to make it a point to keep this conversation with Puck as short as possible so you can get back. Now that you've got your head on straight (ironically), you think it's time for a little payback.

"So listen, Lopez, I know I said I was gonna take it easy tonight - and I have been, I swear - 'cause tonight's about getting you back on the horse and shit, but at the same time I know you don't really like these kinds of places so I hadn't really planned on staying that long anyways, just enough to get you a little drunk and maybe wingman for you a bit if you saw a hottie, but-"

"Puckerman," you cut him off -perhaps a little more harshly than was necessary, but at this rate you'll never get back to Brittany. _Great name, Brittany. Totally fits her, somehow._ You shake your head, feeling your ponytail lash at the sides of your neck. _Stay on task, Lopez._

You try again, with a gentler tone this time. "Just spit it out, Puckerman. You found a girl, didn't you?"

He grins at you sheepishly and rakes his fingers through the close-cropped stripe of hair running across his scalp.

You sigh exaggeratedly, but it doesn't stop the smile that pulls at your cheeks. "Oh my God, you horndog. You're incorrigible. Go. Go ruin yet another girl's relationship with her father."

He laughs, but doesn't move to re-enter the club. Instead he steps closer and grips your shoulder in a firm hand. His face mellows into a more serious expression. "I don't wanna just abandon you though, you know? Tonight's about you. I got the girl's number, I can always meet her later or whatever."

You roll your eyes and knock his hand off your shoulder with a loud smack. "For fuck's sake, Puckerman. I'm an adult, I can find my way back home without you leading me by the nose. Go."

His gaze doesn't waver. You hold it steadily, putting as much confidence and reassurance into your voice and expression as you can muster. "Seriously, Noah. I'm really okay. I appreciate you looking out for me, but you don't have to. I had fun tonight, and it's your fault, so mission accomplished. Now go, before I kick you in the balls and really put a kink in your plans."

Finally, his grin returns. He waggles his eyebrows at you, just to get you to laugh, you're sure, and turns tail back for the club. You only just catch the faint, "You're the best, Mopez," before he's swallowed back up by the pounding roar of the club. _Back into the belly of the Beast, as it were,_ you think wryly.

You take a couple deep breaths, enjoying the sensation of cool air without the cloying heat of a hundred other bodies sharing it. You debate for a moment the merits of going back in, but then you think back to Brittany, and your mind is made up.

"You know that guy?"

You whirl to find the very subject of your thoughts standing a few feet away, cell phone still clutched in her hand. Right away you notice her pink cheeks and nose, and her slightly red-rimmed eyes. Her expression looks frozen, as if she's locking it in place to keep the emotions she really needs to express hidden. You know the feeling, and your heart squeezes painfully at the thought.

Still, you paste on a casual smile and shrug. "Roommate."

Her eyes flicker to the door where Puck disappeared, then back to your face. A shy smile starts, and you breathe out a slow sigh of relief. You're so not equipped for comforting people, but at least you can generally avoid making things worse.

"Yeah? I guess I'll have to rethink my opinion of him, then."

Your eyes narrow and your stomach turns a little in a way that is wholly unfamiliar and wholly unpleasant. You're not one to judge anybody's proclivities, but the idea that this woman may already know Puck makes you inexplicably angry. There are very few reasons for a beautiful woman to be familiar with your roommate, and none of them sit well with you in this particular instance. "You know Puck?"

Your voice sounds hard to you, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Not really. He spilled a drink on me earlier tonight. But he was very nice about it. Even offered to buy me another drink." You almost choke. _No fuckin' way._ Her smile shifts from shy to wily as she focuses on you. "I was actually on my way back to the bar to take him up on it, when I saw something more interesting to do."

"No kidding." Your voice is doing that gravelly, way too low thing again, and her face blanks at the sound of it, making your brow furrow defensively. Out here, out from under the safety of the music, it seems resoundingly loud even despite your hushed tones.

Your voice used to be smooth and low when you were younger, and you used to love to sing. You could hit these impossibly crystal clear notes that would be enough to send shivers down spines. No longer. Now your voice is distorted by a perpetual burr that adds a harsh rasp to every syllable; _makes it sound like cheap whiskey that's too rough to be used for anything better than shots_, you think. One well-placed blow to the trachea was all it took to rob you of the last thing in your life that made you feel beautiful.

"Oh my God, your _voice_."

You wince and think you must sound particularly awful tonight, to warrant a verbal reaction. You're about to offer a useless apology when she continues.

"I'm pretty sure your voice is what it would sound like if a 25 year old single malt could have sex. I couldn't really tell earlier, 'cause we were in the club and with the music...but now? Just...oh my God. Please never stop talking ever. Seriously."

A laugh ripples free from your chest at that. It's not the reaction you were expecting by any means, but somehow it makes total sense, coming from her. "Well, damn, now I'm kinda glad I came out here."

She echoes your laugh with her own for a second, before her face starts to fall. She glances back down to her phone, and it's clear that your words reminded her of the reason _she _came out here.

You take a step forward, hand extended in her direction. You're not sure what you can do, but you really want to keep her from making that kicked puppy face anymore. Not sure if it's your place to ask, considering you're virtual strangers, your question is quiet and tentative. "Everything okay?" _Stupid question._

She glances back up at you and tries to smile again, but it looks forced. You take another step closer, so that there's only a foot or so between you. You try again. "Anything I can do?"

The smile becomes more genuine and fills with affection, but her eyes stay sad.

"Not unless you can magically summon my doofus roommate. She just went off with some random person, which is fine, but she forgot she had my purse with her. She has my keys, my wallet...the only reason my cell phone wasn't in there was because I almost forgot it when we left tonight, so I just stuck in my pocket. I'm basically stranded, since she's too drunk to reason with."

You scoff. "Hold up, bitch won't even come back to give you your own shit? Hell of a roommate you got there."

She chuckles weakly. "Normally she's fine, honestly. This is the first time this has ever happened. She's just kind of...stubborn, and it gets worse when she's drunk."

"So you're stuck." Your brain starts working on overdrive, trying to come up with a solution to her dilemma. You don't even bother to consider why you're so concerned about a problem that has literally nothing to do with you.

"Basically," she sighs. "I'll probably just call my ex and ask to stay with him for the night. It'll be awkward, but it's better than nothing."

The idea sends that curling sensation through your stomach again. The words are out of your mouth before you even realize you're speaking.

"Or you could come home with me."

* * *

**A/N: Cliff hangers are a bitch, I know, I'm sorry (except not really). Fortunately I'm done with school until fall, so I should be able to start churning out chapters with a little more frequency in the following months. Hopefully. We'll see. I'm just excited that I got this damned thing out before I left for my trip tomorrow. Until next time, fair readers.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

You're startled awake, and it takes a moment of searching to find the reason for your sudden return to consciousness. Brittany stands, not three feet from the couch where you lay, frozen midstep and watching you cautiously. Mind still addled by slumber, you stare at her, your eyes drifting slowly over the pearly glow of her skin where it's exposed to the moonlight - the tank-top you lent her doesn't cover much at all, and the blue lace panties below it, even less. She looks fey, bathed as she is in the night's gentle radiance. She looks like the most beautiful creature in the world, you think, and you want to keep her.

You meet her eyes across the distance and they seem to glow brightly in the dim light that spills across her face. Her expression is careful, but confident. She stares at you with an intensity that bespeaks want with the intent to have. Your heart drums out an answering call from deep in your chest.

Coughing quietly to rid your voice of the gravel accumulated by sleep, you break the silence with a whisper.

"Is everything okay? Is the bed uncomfortable? I know it's kind of firm so if you'd rath-"

Ghost-white fingertips press gently against your lips, stilling your harsh rasp. _How did she get so close?_

You start to speak again when she doesn't respond, but your voice sticks in your throat when long, bare legs slide and bend to fit against the outsides of your thighs and hips. The trapped words hold your breath hostage as well when she settles her weight in your lap. Her fingers tickle their way up your arms, stealing over the skin of your biceps and leaving goosebumps in their wake. Palms press gently against you, molding to fit over the ridges of your clavicle, keeping you in place.

Not that you could move right now, even if you wanted to.

The night air is cool on your skin. The blanket you had bunched under your chin fell to the wayside when you sat up, and now you can feel the slight breeze created by the oscillating fan whirring in the corner of the room. The moonlight washes out the gossamer strands of her blonde hair, forming an ethereal veil around her face that floats and shifts with each wave of air that passes over you both.

Your hands fall to her thighs, skating up and down their chilled lengths. Her muscles flex under your caress, and you squeeze lightly in response. Slowly, you work your way up her legs, over her hips, around her waist, until your palms are braced against her spine, holding her close.

Her hands slide up to catch your jaw in their delicate grasp, and gently they pull your face up to hers. She's so close now that you can feel her breaths as they puff across your face, warm and slightly damp.

"Brittany, what-?"

She shushes you softly and breathes out a quiet plea. "I just...I need to feel you." Her tone is too somber, too desperate to fit in this sublimely sensual moment, but the thought flitters away, rendered inconsequential by feel of her skin on yours.

Your heart is hammering against your chest now, adrenaline crackling through your veins. Your eyelids slip shut as you tilt your face up, waiting to meet her lips with your own. The seconds span across eons it seems like, until finally-

A sharp pain lances into your left side, just under your ribs, and you shy away with a surprised grunt.

Suddenly you're plunged into darkness and completely disoriented. You sit up slowly, hand pressed into your aching side. After sitting up and peering bemusedly into the pitchy shadows of your living room for a moment, you dig around between the cushions of the couch until you find the TV remote that was responsible for interrupting your dream. _Your dream._

Dropping the remote carelessly to the floor, you flop back onto your pillow with a muffled groan. _God that was a good dream. Or at least it could have been, dammit._ You glance reflexively in the direction of your bedroom. Now that your eyes have adjusted to the gloom, you can see that your door is slightly ajar. You consider briefly going to peek in, just to check on the blonde currently inhabiting your bed, but dismiss the notion immediately. A slithering feeling of guilt has started to permeate your conscious mind. The woman was practically in tears when you brought her home with you, and you're put out because your sex dream about her was interrupted?

_That is some kind of fucked up, Lopez._

You roll your eyes at yourself and ignore that niggling little voice. Instead, with a huffing sigh, you shove up off the couch and tiptoe over to Puck's bathroom, deliberately bypassing your own door. You're careful to slip on a pair of his flip flops before entering the tiled room. Puck is a pretty clean guy, all in all, but you're not taking any chances.

You finish your business and wash up quickly, eager to return to the couch, sleep, and (hopefully) less incriminating dreams.

As you near your room again, you hear a quiet whimper from within. You freeze, ears straining for- there it is again.

It's a quiet sound, but in the oppressive silence of your apartment it might as well have had an echo. It sounded pained, you think, but something in the back of your mind keeps you from rushing to find its cause. You take a cautious step towards your room and freeze when the floorboards creak under your shifting weight.

Nothing.

Another step, and another, until you're practically pressed up against the door jam. You're careful to control your breathing, making each inhale and exhale slow, steady, and silent. Keeping your feet firmly planted, you lean as far forward as you can without toppling over, until you're just able to peer in through the crack in the doorway. And then you stop breathing altogether.

There, spread out on your bed, black silk sheets flung free of her body, you spot Brittany splayed out like the world's sexiest starfish (you only just keep from smacking yourself across the face - _a _starfish_ Lopez? Really? No more fucking Animal Planet for you.)_

Her head is tipped back, exposing the underside of her jaw and the long, arching column of her neck. Her - _your_ - tank top is bunched up over her ribs, wrinkling around her left wrist as it disappears under the cloth. You can see the faint outline of her thumb as it rolls against her breast. Her stomach lifts and heaves in time with the restless tossing of her head against your pillows, revealing the faintest outline of abdominals with each exhale. You can just barely see the muscles of her right arm flex and pull under the skin, and with a shaky breath, you let your eyes follow the limb to its end. As with the left, her right hand is hidden from view - in this instance, by her underwear (black cotton boi shorts that are somehow infinitely sexier than even the blue lace in your dream). The fabric between her legs clings to the outline of her fingers as they work in a frenzied circling motion. You think you can see a darkened patch of cotton sliding over where her knuckles curl, and it sends a hot twinge straight to the quick of you.

A low, keening whine reverberates from the trembling woman, and it's all you can do not to moan in response. The sound breaks your transfixed gaze, finally allowing you tear yourself from the sight and steal back to the couch as quickly and quietly as possible. Your whole body is keyed up, buzzing with unpurposed energy. You sit gingerly on the edge of the cushion and look at nothing in particular, trying to process what you just saw. Your legs clench together tightly in a vain attempt to still the throb that's begun between them. Swallowing roughly, you find your mouth completely parched. Another squeeze of your thighs alerts you to where all the moisture in your body has apparently decided to relocate.

_Holy motherfucking Jesus Christ and all the fucking saints and angels._

So much for sleeping tonight.

Now, in addition to being uncomfortably aroused (it's almost becoming a habit around this woman), you also feel inexpressibly guilty again - this time over having intruded (however invisibly and unintentionally) on something so very personal and intimate. _Not to mention dead sexy._

_Ugh, no, stop._

You measure your length out on the couch again and stare blankly at the ceiling. You haven't been this turned on in...ever, actually. It might be the alcohol still swimming through your system, but somehow you don't think so. Flipping yourself onto your belly, you close your eyes to try and still your body. Immediately your traitorous (and absurdly detail-oriented) mind projects images of Brittany against your eyelids.

Brittany's throat pulsing with each swallow and moan.

Brittany's torso bowing against your bed.

Brittany's stomach rhythmically rising and caving.

Brittany's hand disappearing into her shorts.

_Fuck. My. Life._

You bite back an exasperated groan and flip onto your back again. Your fingers drum anxiously against your scalp where they're buried in your hair. Your heart rate is elevated and your body feels like it's been mainlined with about five Red Bulls. And crack. And possibly a couple thousand volts of electricity for good measure.

Your pulse seems to have localized to your ears and the apex of your thighs, all points pounding in perfect synchronization. You try slowing your breathing, taking deep, deliberate breaths. It always works when you need a clear mind before a match. After a few moments with no change whatsoever, you give up. It's clear that you only really have once option if you plan on being able to relax any time in the next forty-eight hours.

Craning your neck over the top of the couch, you see that the door is still ajar, but there doesn't seem to be any sound or motion from immediately within. You cross your fingers and hope that karma isn't as big a jackass as it seems to be, because a reverse occurrence of what you just witnessed might very well end you.

That tiny, malicious voice in the back of your head whispers, _But what a way to go._

Leaving your right hand tangled in your hair, you let your left start to drift slowly down your body. You stop at your left breast for a moment to circle your nipple through your shirt. It hardens almost immediately, but otherwise your actions elicit no response. You try pinching and rolling the pebbled nub between your fingers, but still no reaction. Huffing an irritated sigh, you abandon that tact and let your hand continue its southerly route. You've tried playing with your body before, but it's never had any effect on you. You consider for a moment the possibility that you simply don't have any erogenous zones beyond the obvious one, but the thought is cut off when your fingers reach the boundary of your waistband.

You still your body for a few seconds to let the anticipation build (not that it needs to), before sliding your hand under your shorts to palm yourself over the soft cotton of your boxer-briefs. Slowly, and with the lightest touch you can manage, you begin to rub back and forth against your underwear. You need to make this count if you intend to get any sleep tonight, and a slow build-up is usually the best way to make that happen, in your admittedly limited experience.

Gradually, you begin to apply more pressure, pressing your two middle fingers down sharply every time they pass over your clit. When you feel as though that motion has created as much tension in your body as it can, you deftly slide your fingers under the fly to continue rubbing against the single layer of fabric lying between you and release. You gasp in mild shock when your digits find damp material. Whereas a moment ago you could hardly feel anything with two layers under your hand, now you can tell just how wet you've become, and it nearly takes your breath away.

Abandoning the rubbing motion, you switch to slow, sweeping circles that encompass the entirety of the wet spot. It's difficult to establish a rhythm at first, with the way the dampened fabric catches and sticks against the ridges in your fingertips.

Eventually the indirect friction starts to wane in its effectiveness and you decide it's time to get down to business. It takes a minute of awkward flailing to kick your shorts off, and you're just the tiniest bit out of breath when you finally manage it, but it's better than suddenly finding your movements restricted at the worst possible time. You angle your hips slightly so that you can comfortably drape your right calf over the back of the couch to open yourself as much as possible. Your left leg you let hang off the cushion at the knee. Your legs have the endlessly frustrating tendency of clamping together when you're approaching climax, and that is the absolute _last_ thing you need tonight. With a final glance to your room to ensure you won't have an audience, you slip your hand under your briefs.

You don't quite manage to repress the astonished _fuck_ that whispers from your lips when you first encounter your own arousal directly. The skin and coarse, wiry curls beneath your fingertips are _soaked_.

Haltingly, you let your middle finger dip into the silky, slick heat. Once again, with the lightest touch you can manage, you start to make languid strokes through your folds. The muscles of your right thigh clench and spasm every time your finger brushes against the left side of your clit. You've always been more sensitive on that side, so for the moment you do your best to avoid it. Instead, you focus on spreading your arousal as liberally as possible.

A coiling pressure starts to build low in your belly, like a great spring being wound tighter and tighter. You begin to alternate between lazy strokes and tiny, tight circles against the base of your clit. The circles make the tension rise, until it spreads to your hips, forcing them to cant up in an unconscious search for greater pressure.

Your breathing has quickened now, and your right hand is clenched around the pillow under your head. You drop the pretense of teasing altogether and focus entirely on pressing the tiny circles even harder against the base of your clit. Every once and awhile you'll slide your finger down further to gather more wetness on its pad. On the slide back up, you deliberately flick directly against the oversensitive button, causing your hips to buck wildly each time, before resuming the circles. Your thigh muscles have begun quivering uncontrollably, straining to meet. You hook your right heel hard against the back of the couch to anchor it.

You pick up the pace, until your finger matches your rapid breathing almost perfectly, and narrow your aim specifically to that special spot just to the left of the throbbing center of nerves. You bite your lip in frustration as you hit a plateau, unable to find the release you crave so desperately. Your eyes scrunch closed as you strain to keep your pace steady. Suddenly, the vision of Brittany splayed out on your bed splashes across your conscious mind, and an echo of her moan fills your ears. Your motions stutter under the onslaught of images and it causes your finger to jump to the right, slamming against your swollen clit.

Then it happens.

Your breath is ragged in your lungs as the tension in your belly soars, then breaks and ripples through your body in a series of undulating waves. Your hips rut wantonly beneath your hand as you try to keep a steady rhythm despite the random motions of your pelvis, desperate to draw out the pleasure as long as possible. Your breath comes out in a series of short, panting gasps that continually catch in the back of your throat.

When the surging waves finally cease, you lie still for a few minutes, feeling the pulsating aftershocks beat gently under your cupped palm. As you withdraw your arm, one of your fingers accidentally brushes against the still-throbbing bud and you let out a grunt as your hips give one last tired jump.

Bit by bit, your breathing starts to even out again, and a sleepy euphoria spreads over you, enveloping your mind in its gentle grasp, and weighing your eyelids down.

You wipe your hand against your underwear before pulling all of your limbs in and turning on your side to bury your face against the back cushion. Blindly your search for the blanket you had left pooled somewhere under your thighs and awkwardly wrestle it into position over yourself.

As your muscles go slack under the heavy warmth of satiety, your mind starts to drift lazily. Though you couldn't care less right now, content as you are, the thought enters your mind that you're going to be damned irritated in the morning when you have to change your bedsheets because some random chick decided to rub one out on them. Rude.

You start to wonder if that's at all hypocritical, considering what finally pushed you over the edge moments before, but you fall asleep before the train of thought can go much further.

Only to be startled into wakefulness what feels like mere seconds later by the slamming of your front door.

The harsh glare of daylight presses against your eyelids, telling you that hours have passed instead of the few seconds you first assumed, and it turns your blocked vision into a field of orange. A shrill whistling pierces the air, sending sharp lances of pain through your skull. You let out a low groan and clamp your pillow around your head to escape the noise, sighing in relief when it stops abruptly on its own.

You're just about to sink back into blissful unconsciousness when the reprieve is broken by Puck's rumbling voice.

"Dude, why the hell are you on the couch? Did you seriously drink that much? And why are your shorts all the way over here? What the fuck happened last night?"

You grumble and clutch the pillow tighter as the words assail your now semi-conscious mind. Your back aches from sleeping on the couch, your head is fuzzy from lack of sleep, and you have the _worst_ case of cotton-mouth ever. Not a great way to start the morning, in anyone's book.

"C'mon, Slopez, up and at 'em. There's no way you're still tired after the coma you had yesterday. Plus, you gotta hit the gym, fatty."

Without emerging from the depths of your pillow, you fling your free hand out and flip the bird to the room at large. Even if it's not pointed directly at him, you figure Puck will understand implicitly the purpose of the sentiment. You know he's only looking out for you, and at any other time, you'd even be grateful. Right now, however, you can't help but hate him. Just a little.

A low chuckle permeates your feathered cocoon, and a hand slaps lightly against it, jarring you even further into wakefulness.

Okay, maybe more than a little. Maybe a lot.

You slowly start to emerge from the safety of your pillow, squinting blearily at your excessively bright surroundings. This is why your room is painted in all dark colors. _Colors that don't reflect the fucking sun so effectively that it might as well be in the fucking room, _your mind snarls silently_._ You pause in the act of sitting up, confused for a moment as to why you're not in your room in the first place.

Then the whole night comes flooding back to you.

You snap up straight on the couch and whip your head around to your room. Your door is wide open.

Checking to make sure the Puck isn't about to walk in on an awkward situation - not likely since he's in the kitchen shotgunning a Gatorade - you grab your pillow, blanket, and shorts, and hustle into your room as quickly as possible.

You stop dead in your tracks at the sight that meets your eyes. Your bed, which you distinctly recall being made up with black sheets last night (a flash of blonde hair on black pillows - _Fuck _off_, Lopez_), has been remade with your spare sheets, which are a deep crimson red. After a quick sweep of your room, you find the room empty of other people and the original bedclothes wadded up in one of your hampers.

You don't know why, but the small courtesy brings a smile to your face. You shake your head to cut off the thought before it can push you back into the reason behind that small courtesy. Dumping your pillow and blanket on the bed and your shorts in the hamper, you peek cautiously around the bathroom door, which is only half-closed.

You rap your knuckles softly against the frame and push the door open wider when your knock receives no response. The bathroom is empty too.

You're equal parts relieved and disappointed by the fact, but you push the emotions away, not wanting to contemplate the reason behind them. Not this soon after waking up, anyways.

The bathroom is immaculate, showing no signs of previous use beyond a slightly dampened hand towel and a few drops of water on the tile underneath it. You start to reach for your toothbrush, eager to rid yourself of the fuzzy feeling covering your tongue, when the mirror catches your eye.

There in the bottom right corner of the glass surface is a blurry message scrawled in black marker. You run back into your room and grab your glasses, and only narrowly avoid gouging your own eye out in your haste to put them on. You move back to the mirror to read the note.

I'm sorry I had to sneak out on you

but I have an early class today

Thank you so much for letting me stay the night.

- B

Next to the grand, looping B is a slightly smudged pink kiss. You grin at that, wondering how in the hell she managed to leave it when you're fairly certain she wasn't even _wearing_ lipstick to begin with. Below the kiss are a few more lines, sloppier and clearly written in haste, but obviously by the same hand.

P.S. I had to come back in here and add a P.S.

because you looked so adorable all curled up

on the couch and I just thought you should know.

Your cheeks flush at the thought of her seeing you asleep. You know for a fact that while you may not snore, you definitely have a penchant for drooling. _God that must have been _so_ attractive._

Still, as your eyes drift over the words again, you don't fight the smile that remains on your face.

"Lopez! You going to the gym now? I'll drop you if you are."

Puck's shout startles you, but pull out of yourself enough to yell back at him to go ahead, you're planning on walking. He hollers back an affirmative and then you hear the door slam again.

_Fucker needs to learn how to close a damned door without breaking it. Christ alive._

You turn to your shower and crank open the hot water valve. Even though you're going to get all sweaty and gross at the gym, your skin is crawling with the need for a shower. After shucking your clothes and glasses, you jump in as soon as the water is warm and give your body a quick once-over with the loofah. You don't bother to wash your hair, but instead wring it out as best you can before wrapping it in a tight braid to keep it off your face.

One of the first things Hudson had criticized you for was the length of your hair, but you like it too much to chop it off, so you simply ignored him. Besides which, Puck has gotten surprisingly adept at cornrows. The first time he offered to do it for you, you cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him, not sure if you should take him seriously. He had simply shrugged and said that they were like tiny French braids, which were Beth's hairstyle of choice at the time. By necessity, he'd been forced to learn the fine art of braiding lest he bring down the wrath of Quinn on himself for letting their daughter out of the house in anything less than perfect condition.

You don't really like having cornrows unless you have to, so a single plait will do for your purposes.

When you step out of the shower and over to the mirror to put your contacts in, you find the glass completely fogged up. You're about to wipe the whole thing down, when the message catches your eye again. You stare at it for a second or two, then shrug and only rub away enough condensation to create a small circle directly before your face.

Once your contacts are in you head back into your room and pull on a plain white tee and tuck it into your boyfriend jeans, belting it all in place with a warped brown leather belt you stole from Puck a couple months ago. If he insists on stealing your shampoo without replacing it (and you know he does), you figure it's only fair that you return the favor in your own manner. Tugging on your brown bomber jacket, you survey yourself in the mirror. The belt looks better on you anyways.

You stuff your gym clothes, gloves, mouth guard, water bottle, and an extra towel into your gym bag before sitting at the edge of your bed to tug on a pair of socks and a pair of black Converse high tops.

You check yourself over in the mirror one more time, and snort a little at your own vanity. You're not entirely sure why you bother, but it's a habit you never cared enough to break. You don't really strive to be feminine, but some part of you still cares at least a little about your appearance. You chuckle at yourself and turn away to grab your bag.

You're almost out the door when you remember your keys, which are by your phone, which is still plugged into its charger on the kitchen counter. Shoving them both in your pockets and sliding your aviators on, you head out.

As you make your way through the crowded sidewalks of your neighborhood, you try to distract yourself from the constant press of humanity around you by letting your mind wander. Even though you know the route to the bus stop like the back of your hand, being constantly jostled and pushed around by strangers puts you on edge. Besides, you always think better on the move anyhow. Almost immediately, your thoughts turn to Brittany, and the night before.

Despite her obvious distress before your impulsive offer of a place to crash last night, the woman had been remarkably cheerful the entire walk back to your apartment. You hadn't really thought anything of it at the time, as you were too busy alternately kicking yourself for your random burst of generosity - _who the hell invites a complete stranger into their home for the night without the expectation of sex? - _and panicking over the possibility that maybe there _was_ the expectation of sex, and you just weren't aware.

You find it ironic now, that even though your panic was over nothing, sex still managed to happen. _Well, sort of._

The whole evening had been completely bizarre, but the shining look of gratitude Brittany had bestowed upon you before you'd stuttered a clumsy goodnight and snagged a pillow to take with you to the couch had made the whole thing worth it, you decide. Even so, most of you is grateful you didn't have to show her out this morning. You honestly don't think you would have been able to look her in the eye.

A tiny part of you is still disappointed, though. You think back to the little message still scribbled across your mirror. It was a sweet surprise, and you can't help but think that the kind of person who would leave such a note might be worth getting to know. You wish you'd had the presence of mind to ask for her number. Or at the very least, give her yours.

Your hand lifts to rub absently at your chest when a lump forms at the center of it, but it's gone in a moment.

When you reach the corner bus stop, you have to check the time on your phone twice before you realize that it's the bus that's late, not you. Your stress level kicks up another notch, and you feel a scowl start to form on your face. It's pointless to be irritated, but anything that screws with your schedule tends to piss you off. The only other inhabitant of the stop, a tiny old lady about half your size, must notice your agitation because she shuffles over to pat your arm kindly and tell you that the buses are all behind today, so you might as well settle in, deary.

You thank her as politely as you can under the circumstances (_why_ do old people think being old is a free reign to touch whoever the fuck?) and take a few steps back to lean against the building behind the stop. You might as well take her advice and settle in.

_Whatever the hell that means._

Once comfortably nestled against the brick building, you flick open your weathered bomber and reach for the slim steel case nestled in the pocket of its lining. The metal is cool against your fingertips, not having been pressed against your body heat long enough to absorb its warmth yet.

Just for a moment you pause to admire the craftsmanship of the case. It's an antique 1930s German-crafted cigarette case you found a couple years back at a thrift shop. You like to kid yourself that it might be the kind Greta Garbo or Clara Bow would have been accustomed to plucking a cigarette from on occasion.

The lid is inlaid with intricate floral designs that make your head spin and your eyes cross when you try to follow their paths. Damned Krauts. Crafty little bastards, you'll give them that much, especially when it comes to steelwork. The bottom half of the case is simple corrugated metal, but even it has a certain grace and precision to it that you can't help but admire. You have a thing for direct, yet elegant simplicity.

(Your mind flashes back to penetrating blue eyes and an unguarded smile.)

You depress the catch and pull out Macanudo Maduro Ascot, one of the few mild cigars -okay, they're technically cigarillos, if you're being honest with yourself - you find worth the smoke. With a casual disregard for propriety you suck on the rounded cap for a moment to wet it, and then nip it off with your front teeth and spit it out onto the sidewalk. Scraping your tongue against your teeth in reaction to the bitter, salty taste of the wrapper, you snap the case shut and return it to its rightful place, resting against your right breast.

With the cigar held firmly between your lips, you fumble with your awkward right hand momentarily before finally extracting your lighter from the pocket of your jeans. It lights easily - the smaller ones always do - and the lighter vanishes back into your pocket much more quickly than it originally appeared. You puff on the stick a couple times before blowing the smoke out over the foot, because despite your earlier negligence in cutting it, you still have some pride and damned if any smoke you light doesn't burn evenly.

These cigarillos are smooth, smoother and milder than you generally prefer, but they're small enough to fit in the case for those moments when you're willing to admit that smoking may be just as much a habit as a hobby for you these days. You can almost track the nicotine as it starts to work its way into your system, and the little sigh of relief that escapes your lips would be cause for concern if you weren't so busy being grateful for the gentle sense of relaxation that steals over you.

You're just about finished with the thing when the bus finally arrives, so you ground out the embers against the brick wall behind you and flick the remainder into a nearby trash can before climbing on board. Your customary seat in the back left corner is open, and you just barely manage to restrain yourself from a victorious fistpump as you make your way back to it. You dig your iPod out of the pocket of your bag and pop the earbuds in, sighing in satisfaction when the soothing sounds of mellow jazz fill your ears.

By the time the bus reaches your stop twenty minutes later, your earlier stress is all but forgotten. It's been almost a full seventy-two hours since your last real workout, and you're just itching to feel that familiar burn in your muscles again. It's a craving you don't think you'll ever shake. Why would you want to?

The gym you're heading to now isn't the one you're employed at, but it has a far superior weight room to Schuester's, and a standard Olympic pool, so you find it convenient to knock out both your cardio and weight training here. The cardio you come for daily, but the weight training you generally keep to only two or three times a week. Strength and power is good, but your real advantage comes in the form of your speed, so you have to be careful not to get so caught up in putting on muscle that it costs you that innate agility. You refuse to become one of those muscle bound meatheads who can't even touch their own toes, nevermind throw a proper kick. The added benefit of never having to run into Hudson here is enough to make it your favorite building in West Hollywood. If there was a proper ring here, you wouldn't have to train at your gym at all, but you suppose given the circumstances, you can't really complain. Well, you can, but you won't.

As you step past the automatic sliding doors and nod to the girl at the front desk, a sense of giddy anticipation fills you. For the first time in far too long, you don't have any impending fights hanging over your head, forcing you to conserve your energy and limit your workouts. You have complete freedom to work yourself into exhaustion if you so chose (not that you would - you got enough of that under your braindead trainer's 'care') and the sense of control it gives you is electrifying. Before, you always had the feeling that you were shortchanging yourself - working just enough to stay in shape, but never really growing or improving.

The knowledge that eventually you'll have to quit here to head over to Schuester's for fight training looms in the back of your mind ominously. You're not sure what to expect, given the last time you were there, it was a distinct possibility that you would be out a trainer before the week's end. You can only hope that's the case. But in the meantime, you grin widely to yourself as you survey the forest of metal contraptions before you. You're going to _enjoy_ this.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Six

"Hip up!"

Your right leg wheels and kick wildly against the weight bearing down on you, trying work up high enough to score a hit, but the constant shifting and rocking of your opponent makes it nearly impossible.

"Hip. _Up_. Lopez."

You slam your fist into an exposed spine , but it doesn't seem to phase him at all. Thighs tighten around your left hip, crushing heavily against your ribs. The muscles of your left leg scream in protest as the limb pulled in an unnatural position.

"Dammit, Lopez, get that hip up or I'll come in there and break it!"

With a furious growl you shove your right heel against the mat, torque your pelvis, and thrust your right hip up against the weight. Suddenly the grip around your left thigh seems much looser. From your new position you can sit up just enough to work an arm around the man's neck. You yank back viciously and use both yours and your opponent's momentum to continue the motion, flipping both of your bodies over until you're sitting on his back while he's laid out on his belly.

You lock his right shoulder between your arms and tighten your hold on his neck. Stabilizing your position by straddling the small of his back, you begin to tug him up and back, until his torso has completely lifted from the mat. His left arm slaps and scrabbles against you, desperately seeking release from your punishing grip.

"Time!"

You drop him with a grunt and roll off, taking a moment to catch your breath before pushing to your feet. Wordlessly you walk over and offer a hand up to the man. Eventually he takes it, hacking a little as he rubs at his throat.

"Damn, Lopez. Where the hell you learn that one? That shit was _fast_."

You grin around your mouth piece and slap him on the shoulder in response. Now that the bout is through, your mind is racing through every hold, striving to pinpoint each mistake. You stand, panting in the middle of the ring, heaving slightly, trying to recall what got you into that position in the first place. Your muscles are quivering with exertion and your left hip still burns from the pressure applied to it.

A hand taps against your shoulder, and you whirl, fists up, taken by surprise by the unexpected touch.

"Woah, easy killer, just me." You drop your hands immediately and offer an apologetic shrug.

"Sorry, still not used to anyone else being in the ring after a bout." You survey your new trainer curiously, waiting for his assessment.

His normally perfectly gelled hair is disheveled and dripping with sweat, his pale skin flushed with exertion. His face, however, is alive with excitement and a personal interest in you that manages somehow to be intense yet entirely unthreatening.

When you'd first walked back into Schuester's on Monday, it was with the automatic assumption that you would be going about your training in the usual manner. For the past few months, that had entailed you setting your own (rigorous) pace and routine with little or no acknowledgement from Hudson. You were content to continue that arrangement, frankly. His long-standing practice of absence, uselessness, and general sexist fuckery was something you were quite pleased to do without. With the gym owner's promise of a more reasonable match schedule in the future, and the mind-boggling freedom of 45 (now 38) days on the inactive list, you were excited to be able to start actually _training_ again, rather than just running yourself into the ground in between fights in a desperate attempt to stay in shape.

Instead, almost immediately upon entering the building, you were called into Schuester's office.

Wherein you were confronted by a solid wall of Axe products and the most garishly cheerful plaid shirt and bowtie combo you'd ever had the misfortune to witness - which you felt was something of a miracle in and of itself, considering your overexposure to the dubious wonder that is hipster/queer fashion in West Hollywood.

You were relieved to find that his workout clothes were much more sensible (and monochrome) - a plain t-shirt or tank top and basketball shorts. You're all for style, but you're pretty sure you would have had to punch him out on principle if he'd tried to work you out wearing a fucking _bowtie_.

The man turned out to be Blaine Anderson, an up and comer in the world of mixed martial arts over in Japan (a fact that was both impressive and the reason for his unusual lack of notoriety in the States) whose career was cut tragically short after some sort of automobile accident had permanently put him out of the game. He didn't offer details and you didn't ask. Despite his unhappy circumstances, Anderson had turned out to be unfailingly polite and almost suspiciously pleasant. In an effort to keep some ties to the sport, he had elected become instead a trainer. You were a tad disbelieving when he had admitted he preferred to work with female athletes, but given his strangely gentle nature and obvious inclinations towards his own sex - an observation that went a long way towards putting you at ease around him - you finally decided it made sense enough to let the subject pass unquestioned.

Schuester had told you that this pairing was a trial only, as Anderson was still technically on probation with the gym, but he seemed confident that arrangement would stick, and after your first session with the former athlete, you were inclined to agree. While always courteous and mindful of both your needs and his own limitations, (a slight limp had become more and more pronounced as the session had progressed) he was relentless in his drive for excellence. You gave him your respect instantly and without qualms after that.

You had spent the rest of your Monday afternoon working out a new schedule for training, weight-lifting, and general fitness. At first it had seemed odd and vaguely stifling to allow someone else to provide input on a subject that had been up to your sole discretion for so long, but eventually a rhythm between the two of you had developed and after awhile it became something of a relief to be accountable to someone else. This was the way it was _supposed _to be.

"Alright boss, let's have it," you deadpan.

He quirks a grin at you and raises a ridiculously sculpted eyebrow - _seriously, this dude's grooming regimen has to be off the charts_ - but otherwise lets the quip pass.

"That was pretty good. Once you pulled your head out of your behind and actually _listened_ to me, your recovery was near perfect."

You flush lightly at the gentle chastisement, but accept it. It's been an adjustment, learning to trust someone else's judgement in the ring again, and Anderson has been endlessly patient with you.

"Can you tell me how you got stuck in the first place?"

You nod and immediately begin explaining the details of the last few minutes from the bout, and where you went wrong.

"Rutherford cornered me, which normally wouldn't be that big of a deal, but I was paying more attention to his hands than his footwork."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Why were you ignoring his footwork." He fixes you with an intent look that makes you pause and really think about your answer.

"He's always relied pretty heavily with hand-to-hand combat, and I'm pretty sure he's never been properly trained in Jiu-Jitsu or anything like that as far as I know, so I was expecting him to stick with what he knows." You frown as you consider your own words. That grappling had come out of nowhere, and it was surprisingly effective, considering what you knew of his skill-set.

"So you got complacent."

You open your mouth automatically to defend yourself, but close it again almost immediately. Blaine Anderson is not Finn Hudson. Not by a long shot. When he's critical it's for a reason, but still you find it...challenging not to immediately rise to your own defense and cut him down.

You realize after a moment's pondering that he's absolutely correct. It's true, you hadn't looking for anything other than his normal style, so you hadn't seen it coming.

"Fuck. Um, yeah I guess I did."

Anderson chuckles and you roll the toes your bare right foot awkwardly against the sweat-slick mat. It pains you to admit, but he really has got you there.

"It's pretty common, especially in scrimmage bouts or when you're facing an opponent you're familiar with, which is why it's almost always a fighter's downfall. It's one thing to know your opponent's style - that's just common sense, but it's another thing entirely to _depend_ on it. Then a fighter will run into exactly the problems you just did. They stop paying attention."

You nod absently, storing the information away for further contemplation. That's one thing you've really come to appreciate about Anderson's teaching style. He'll let you stew over something as long as you need to, no pressure added.

When he sees that you're taking his words to heart, he lets the subject drop and instead motions for you to exit the ring so you can start your cool-down stretches. As you're stretching, he starts in on a technical exploration of the entire bout, pointing out the things you need to work on, but never failing to compliment you on any successes.

The discussion ends just about the time you've finished cooling off, which you don't doubt was exactly Anderson's intention.

"Alright Lopez, you heading down the street after this?"

You nod in the affirmative. When you had first told your new trainer about your preference to handle your weights and cardio at the local fitness gym, he'd had some reservations over the idea, but after you'd explained your regimen to him, he admitted that you knew what you were doing and, with some minor adjustments and suggestions for your typical routine, left you to it.

"Yeah, that was the plan."

"Sounds good. You worked pretty hard today, so maybe limit it to 30 minutes of heavy weights and then an hour or so of cardio."

He laughs at your grimace and pats you lightly on the shoulder. He has you doing a lot more heavy lifting than you would normally put yourself through, and it's not exactly your favorite thing.

"You're fast Lopez, and that's good, but that'll only getcha halfway there. Gotta put some muscle on you."

"Ugh. Fine. You suck, Anderson."

"Only on the third date."

You snort and crinkle your nose at him, and he laughs again. After storing your gear in your bag, you head to locker room for a quick shower and a change of clothes. You've taken to packing two sets of workout clothes expressly so you don't have to suffer the feeling of your own sweat drying on your skin and clothes. Totally worth the extra shower.

As you head out of the front exit, a thought occurs to you, and you holler out to Anderson from across the gym to where he's doing a light workout with a speed bag.

"Hey boss!" Anderson stills the bag with an outstretched hand and meets your gaze through the jungle of workout equipment.

"Rutherford hasn't trained in Jiu-Jitsu,"

He looks at you expectantly, with the slightest beginnings of a grin playing on his lips.

"Where the fuck did that move come from today?"

"You're not the only one I'm working with Lopez." His grin is full blown now, with just the slightest hint of mockery in it now.

"Oh _fuck you_, Anderson. Rutherford doesn't even compete! You taught him that just to fuck with me?"

A booming guffaw echoes from the ring, and you turn to see Rutherford, back in gear, smirking at you from his spot hanging on the ropes. You look back to Anderson, and now he's laughing too.

"Just keeping you on your toes, Lopez. Just keeping you on your toes."

You favor him with a heavy eye roll, but the effect is ruined by your own self-deprecating smile. You mutter good-naturedly under your breath, and stalk out of the gym, shaking your head the whole way.

_Walked right into that one, dammit._

You can't really hold it against him though, because the lesson was a good one. Still. It chafes against your pride a little, how easily you were taken in.

It only takes you about fifteen minutes to get to the gym, and you decide to get your weights done first, and cool off in the pool doing your cardio. After you've stowed your bag in a locker and changed into (relatively) fresh workout clothes, you head over to the dumbbells rack.

After you've stretched for 10 minutes and your muscles once again feel warm and liquid and strong all at once under your skin, you walk over to the rack and select two 20lb dumbbells, hefting them experimentally in your hands.

Quietly you make your way over to a secluded corner of the mat and begin your workout. You stretch your arms out to their full extent to make yourself into a human 't,' and slowly lift them over your head until the inside ends of the dumbbells meet with a dull _clink_. Just as slowly, you drop them back to your sides to thud gently against your thighs before lifting them again to their original horizontal starting position. This time you swing them around in front of you, elbows still locked, pace still achingly slow, until the weights clink again when they meet in the middle. Then they slowly drift back.

You move in the pattern over and over again - up _clink _down _thud _front _clink _up _clink _down _thud _front _clink _- the repetition lulling you into a strange state of relaxed tension you only emerge from when you feel your shoulders start to burn and your hands tremble.

Your eyes flutter open (you don't remember closing them) and as you come back into your senses your skin prickles with the sensation of being watched. You don't react other than to press yourself into a heightened state of awareness. You don't feel particularly threatened and you're accustomed to being stared at here, especially when you decide to work out in shorts and a tank top, rather than your usual sweats and a loose tee, so you brush it off easily.

Your body is in peak physical condition, and it shows. That on it's own has garnered you plenty attention even in passing on the street, but in the gym, where it's possible to see you actually cultivating your form, muscles contracting and shifting under your sweat-sheened skin, it's almost inevitable that people stare. It's clear that you're not just here to drop that last piece of cheesecake or whatever the hell other women do at the gym. You mean business and it shows.

You might be too scarred and muscled to ever be considered traditionally pretty - _fuck that noise anyways_, you scoff to yourself - but no-one can deny what incredible shape you're in, and how hard you work to stay that way.

Once you've finished working your arms, chest and shoulders, you head over to a leg press machine. You've just settled in the seat with your feet firmly planted when the watched-sensation returns. It's starting to get a little annoying now, but again, you simply shrug it off.

_Bitches be jealous. Or stalking. But even then, only because bitches be jealous. Probably._

You're about halfway through your last rep when your phone buzzes in your bra, indicating you have a new incoming text. The only reason you stop to check it is because in your memory, your phone has never _just _buzzed. The only people who have your number are Puck, Quinn, Schuester (or rather the gym has it on file) and Finn. Well, now Anderson. But they all, without exception, only ever call you.

You tug the phone free and check the screen - sure enough, you have a new text message. Your thighs are starting to shake a little from supporting the weights mid-extension, but you hold your position.

_What the hell? Who-_

**New message from: Brittany 3**

Your thought ends abruptly when you read the sender ID, and your knees come crashing forward into your chest, squashing all the air out of your lungs in a surprised (and embarrassingly loud) grunt.

_At least I didn't crack one off_. The thought flies across your conscious mind before you can stop it, and you have to roll your eyes at yourself. Clearly, living with Puckerman all these years has had some negative influences on your psyche.

A peal of laughter rings out across the gym, cutting effortlessly through the clamor of clanking machines and grunting, groaning exercisers. It's a familiar laugh that has your head whipping every which way, trying to find its source. You think you see a flash of blonde out of the corner of your eye, but it's gone before you can focus well enough to tell for sure.

Your breath is still coming in pants as you try to regain the wind you suddenly lost. How _the hell-?_ Knees still pressed against your boobs, you flip the phone open and, after a moment's fumbling, manage to access the text.

**From Brittany 3: u look so badass when ur working out. ;-)**

You struggle to sit upright and free yourself from the weight machine, neck still craning in an effort to find the sender herself. No luck. Nervously (_how the goddamn fuck did she get my number?_) you send a text back. It takes you an exasperatingly long time to type out the message, and your hands are shaking slightly when your thumb finally depresses the 'Send' button. You attribute it to the lack of practice in texting, and nothing else. At all.

**To Brittany 3: Not to be rude, but how did you get this number? And where are you?**

Deciding that continuing your weight-training right now is fairly pointless (you were almost done anyhow), you clamber awkwardly out from under the platform your feet were just planted against and stand on slightly wobbly legs. You stare at your phone expectantly, waiting for a response, and still you jump when it finally buzzes again.

**From Brittany 3: r u mad? u look mad. i thought it wud b funny... :(**

You're about to type out another response, repeating your questions, when it buzzes again. You jump. Again. You also may or may not let out a decidedly _not-_badass _eep _of surprise.

**From Brittany 3: by the treadmills. come say hi?**

Your heart leaps into your throat for reasons you can't really express as you rock up on your toes to peer over the tops of the metal and forest surrounding you to find Brittany's head bobbing up and down as she jogs in place on of the many treadmills lined up against the back wall. She grins widely and waves when your eyes meet, and you give a soft smile and wave in automatic reaction. She motions you over excitedly, so you wave at her again to acknowledge her request.

It doesn't occur to you until after you've tucked your phone back in your bra that she's still watching you. Your ears feel like they're on fire and you feel the sudden urge to facepalm. Hard.

Fiddling anxiously with the hem of your tank top, you make your way over, eyes fixed steadily on the mottled grey carpet beneath your feet. You're nervous. It's ridiculous and inexplicable, but you're nervous. You stop just behind a wall of squat machines to give yourself a moment. You're fairly certain she can't see you where you stand now, so you take a few deep breaths to strengthen your resolve.

_She's just a woman. She probably just wants to say thanks for that night, and letting her stay. No big. You've knocked out tougher people than her in less than two rounds, dammit. Pussy up, Lopez._

Straightening your shoulders and coaching your facial features into what you hope is a convincing imitation of casual regard, you step out from your hiding place and cross the last few feet of open space to where she's jogging.

You do not check out her fantastic legs in all their mile-long glory. You _definitely _do not eye her stomach, perfect abs flexing with each glorious stride. You _absolutely _do not admire her sweat-soaked sports bra while simultaneously hating it for obscuring the hidden wonders it contains. You _positively _do not lick your lips as your gaze slides over her own (your stomach does not clench when her pretty pink tongue flickers out to mimic your actions). You most certainly _do not_ randomly recall the image of her writhing on your bed, in the throws of self-administered passion. No you damn well do _not_.

When you (finally) meet her eyes, they're sparkling at you knowingly, and all of your 'do nots' fill your face with heat and humiliation.

_Jesus Christ, Lopez, be a bigger fucking perv. Offer her some damned steak sauce if you're gonna stare at her like she's a piece of fucking meat._

"Hi, Santana."

You blink stupidly, your internal incrimination forgotten in face of her greeting. You stare, wide-eyed, as her smile starts to falter at your lack of response.

"Oh gosh, please tell me that I didn't go and forget the name of the woman who took me in even though I was a drunk, sloppy mess and she probably had a million better things to do that night, especially looking that smoking hot in-"

Your brain finally kickstarts again and you cut off her rambling with a wave and an embarrassed smile. You recall the conversation in the club when you'd first given her your name, and how it had been automatic to only offer your last name. Truth be told, you've always been vaguely irritated by your first name, for no other reason than you're convinced that your smoked out parents must have named you after that damned guitarist guy. But now...you think you sort like the way it sounds in her voice. Sexy. Significant, even.

_Get. Your shit. Together. Lopez._

"No, no, sorry. No, you got it right. I just...It's been awhile since anyone's used my first name. You caught me by surprise, that's all. Apparently it's your thing with me."

_Oh my God, shut up. you _freak.

Brittany just smiles, slowing her jog to a walk, and cocks her head at you in confusion. You try not to bite your lip at how precious that look still is, even the second time around.

"How come? It's your name, isn't it? What do people call you, if not your name?"

Her voice is low and hushed, as if the conversation should be taking place in a dark alley somewhere instead of in broad daylight in the middle of a moderately populated gym. You grin in spite of yourself. _So cute._

"Yeah, it's my first name. Most people just call me by my last name. Or some variation of it." Your smile turns fond as you recall Beth's petname for you. It's the only nickname you really tolerate.

"Oh. Well, would you prefer that? I didn't know..."

You refocus your attention on the woman, your eyes taking a brief detour from her face to track a bead of sweat as it trickles slowly down the gently slope of her neck to stop precariously on the rounded peak of her collarbone. Before you can stop it, your mind paints a taunting image of you licking at the droplet, following its track back up her neck to suck-

_Fuck, no. _Focus,_ Lopez._

A less-than-flattering, "huh?" esacpes your lips before you can think to say anything slightly more intelligent and less idiotic, and the urge to facepalm returns. You consider briefly the merits of using a cinder block instead of your hand.

"Your name. Like, what do you want me to call you? I mean, I have Santana in my phone, but I can change it if you'd rather..."

Oh. Right.

"No, uhm, Santana is fine. You can call me Santana." An errant thought catches your attention. "That reminds me," you narrow your eyes at her in mock suspicion. You're not really irritated, but you are curious. "Just how exactly did you get my number in the first place?"

She has the grace to look abashed, dropping her gaze to fiddle awkwardly with the buttons on the treadmill.

"Oh, that."

"Yeah," you smirk, "that."

You can't for the life of you imagine how, but she somehow manages to peek up at you from beneath her eyelashes, despite having a good two feet on you from her spot on the treading. When she sees you're still smiling, a timid curve echoes in her mouth.

"When I was leaving your place the other day I noticed your phone was plugged in on the counter and I kind of added my name in your contacts and then texted myself with your phone." Her brow scrunches briefly, and the expression she makes when she meets your eyes again gives your heart a little twist. "You only had like, six contacts in your phone. Do you not call people?"

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. You don't really know what to say to that. Perhaps a little more defensively than you'd like to admit, you eventually respond, "I call people. I just...I don't have a lot of people to call, I guess." You shrug uncomfortably when her face scrunches even further, as if she can't quite understand how that could be. "It's whatever, you know? I don't generally have that much to say, so."

You feel like you should say something else, but you don't really know what you're trying to justify, or even why.

Suddenly, her face brightens into a delighted glow, and inwardly you breathe a sigh of relief. "Well now you have one more friend to call, right? And I can talk if you don't want to. Although, I bet you have some pretty interesting things to say, so I hope that won't always be the case."

You're kind of astonished by the idea. A new friend. Hell, you didn't really even do anything except give her a place to crash for a night. _And perv on her like a creep. Classy._

_Shut up._

"Uh. Sure. Sounds...sounds good."

Her smile brightens further, if it's even possible, and she hops off the treadmill and has you locked in a tight embrace before you can do so much as blink. And sweet merciful God above, she smells _good._

You're too stunned to react at first, at least outwardly (inwardly you're freaking out and melting into goo and trying not to be completely turned on by the scent of her heavy, musky, perspiring self - and failing utterly). Just as your hands are about to settle across her back, she releases you with a happy smile, beaming cheerfully.

"Awesome. And as your friend, I would like to take you out to dinner to thank you for letting me stay at your place last week. I really owe you. Please?"

You don't know if the flutters in your stomach are from her gentle plea, or just the general idea of spending more one-on-one time with her, in a setting that could potentially be interpreted as really kind of romantic. Probably not the best idea.

_Wait, why not? She's hot, clearly into you, and the most intriguing human you've met in forever._

_Because you're a fucking MMA fighter, an inexperienced one at that, and that is not exactly girlfriend material. Not to mention your general inability to function like a productive member of society in crowds of three or more._

_Whatever, it's still worth giving a shot._

"Santana?" She watches you, concern and amusement flickering across her face (amusement seems to be winning).

Right. "Right. Yeah, sorry. Um, I had kind of planned on staying in tonight, honestly. I've still got an hour of swim cardio after this and after that, I'll probably be pretty wiped. I don't think I'd be very good going-out company..."

Her face falls briefly, then brightens again almost immediately. You feel like you might get psychological whiplash from her mercurial mood changes, but she's just so damned..._cute._

"I could bring dinner to you! Before I saw you here, I was planning on getting pizza and beer and just watching a movie tonight. Maybe we could do that together? Please?"

She looks so hopeful, you just can't turn her down. Besides, pizza and beer? Can't get more casual than that, right? Totally a no pressure situation.

You heave a sigh and eye her cautiously, still not entirely sure what's got you holding back. "I suppose..."

She shrieks and flings herself at you again, arm wrapping tight around your neck so that your cheeks are pinched between her biceps and jawbone. She still smells like sweaty, hot heaven. You bite your tongue and just manage to swallow back your frustrated groan.

"This is gonna be so awesome! Okay, I gotta go home and shower and run to the grocery store 'cause I promised Rach I would yesterday but then I forgot and I'm afraid she'll start yelling again if I don't get it done today, especially since it takes _forever_ to get her groceries because she has to get her food special because she doesn't like animals or whatever so I have to read every. Single. Label. To make sure it's all safe for her to eat but after that I can totally pick up the pizza and beer and then we can hang out and oh! I can bring a couple movies over too! This is gonna be so awesome!"

You stare dazedly, trying to sort through her breathless exclamations, and you're struck by the thought that Brittany has nearly exactly that same irrepressible bubbly energy that Beth throws herself at life with. It's pretty endearing actually.

"That sounds good. I can text you later when I'm all settled in for the evening, since, you know, apparently I already have your number," you tease.

Her cheeks pink slightly, but she's grinning too excitedly to be put off by your snark. _Irrepressible is right. God she and Beth would get along famously._

"Perfect. I'll see you later Santana." She presses a light kiss to your cheek and takes a step back. You watch as she turns away, and lift a questioning eyebrow when she stops to catch your gaze again over her shoulder. Her eyes slide slowly down your body, and slowly back up, and you're seconds from checking to see if your face is on fire when she finally gets back up to your face again.

"Have fun swimming."

It's a simple phrase, really. Not even particularly malleable to innuendo, and yet you feel like you just got groped by the hottest chick in the place, but she left before you could so much as turn the favor.

_Fuck, I hope that damn pool is cold today._

It is, and you're more grateful than you should be, considering how little actual physical contact actually occurred between the two of you.

By the time you've finished your laps, exhaustion has chased any arousal from your system, and all you want to do is take a quick shower and get home. You take a cold shower, though, just in case. Your mind tends to wander in the shower, and it really doesn't need any encouragement.

It's not until you're waiting at the bus stop, finally standing completely still for moment, when it comes to you that you just agreed to let Brittany over to your apartment. That you share. With Noah Puckerman.

"Fuck."

A woman sitting on a bench nearby whips her head around to glare at you and clutches the toddler in her lap closer to her chest. You shrug in apology, but you're not really all that concerned. The kid is maybe two at best, and one curse word is hardly going to ruin his vocabulary.

And if it is, his parents are probably going to have a hell of a lot more to worry about with him than an occasional f-bomb, frankly.

You grin idly at the though, imagining the konniption fit Quinn would throw if you even _thought _of teaching Beth something like that. But then again, you'd never really consider it, in the first place. No one appreciates Beth's innocent enthusiasm for life more than you do, and you'll be dead before you spoil it with your cynicism and dark humor. Your grin softens into a genuine smile when thoughts of Beth lead once again to Brittany. They really are very alike.

It's a little strange, you think. You can't imagine the kind of childhood that would allow someone to grow up as perfectly as Brittany seems to have. You decide that if she's going to be a part of your life, in any capacity, you're going to do your best to preserve that innocent outlook for her too. Unadulterated beauty is rare enough in this world without someone like you spoiling it.

_Speaking of spoiling it_..your mind drifts back to Puck and your smile drops completely. _Goddammit_.

You love Puck, you really do. He's the best friend a girl could hope for, and he's gotten you out of more scrapes than you care to think about, and never with any complaint. _But_, you think to yourself candidly, _that's probably only because he's gotten me _into_ nearly as many scrapes as he's gotten me out of. That boy is hell on wheels, even when he's on his best behavior._

Truthfully, though, you're mostly just terrified of being ever measured up against him. Puck can be an ass, it's true, and the man can't keep it in his pants to save his damn life, but he's one of the best guys you've ever met, especially with Beth. There's a reason he never wants for the company of women; chicks just seem to eat up that bad boy with a soft side thing.

All you've really got going for you is sarcasm and a deadly left hook. It doesn't really bother you most of the time, but on days like today, you find it a real struggle to understand why anyone would ever pick you.

_God,_ _especially someone like Brittany._

The entire bus ride back to your apartment you spend working yourself deeper and deeper into worry until, by the time you've reached your front door, you're seconds away from a panic attack.

You unlock the deadbolt and drop your gym bag just inside, leaning back against the door and closing it with your sagging weight. Suddenly everything seems a lot more serious than it did an hour and a half ago when all you had to concern yourself with was not looking like a complete fool in front of a beautiful woman.

"Just...Fuck me."

"You're very kind to offer dear, but I think I'll decline your most gracious invitation just now."

Your eyes snap back open in shock at the lilting taunt, seeking out and finding its source instantly. Your jaw gapes for a moment before you straighten automatically, squaring your shoulders once more.

"You're here," you announce unnecessarily, trying not to wince as soon as the words leave your tongue. "What the hell are you doing here?"

* * *

**A/N: Yet another cliff hanger, I know. I'm sorry. Except not really, because I'm sure it's fairly obvious just who was lying in wait for Lopez. In my defense, technically every chapter ending ever written is a cliff hanger if it's properly written, because they should always leave you wondering what happened next, and wishing the story would continue.**

**Any ways, I apologize for the long delay between updates. I had a tough time deciding how far I wanted to take this chapter. I think I've got things back on track now, so hopefully the next update will be within the next month or so. Fingers crossed. Also, for those interested, I hope to get the next chapter of Mine up and running in the next couple weeks as well. Toes crossed too.**

**In the meantime, if you're looking for something short and sweet - or rather short and sexy - may I suggest you check out Swinging Cloud's Summer of Smut submissions. She's got 'em all posted on FFdotnet, and on Tumblr under the tag #SUMOSMU. I believe the lovely and talented crammit has also lent her hand to the task, so to speak, so definitely check out her stuff too.**

**Finally, if you're reading this story, you might be into MMA fighting, and if that's the case, this article may be of some particular interest to you: lilyhiottmillis/fox-will-air-first-ufc-fight-betwe en-two-out-gay-fighters And if you found that intriguing, then maybe check this one out too: www(). /a-talk-with-the-fighters-from-the-first-ufc-match -between-two-lesbians-187123/**

**Enjoy!**


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